


TLC

by Cat_Jenkins



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:57:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 124
Words: 210,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Jenkins/pseuds/Cat_Jenkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hotch gets sick, Rossi steps up to take care of his best friend. Set in the same arena as 'A Friend In Need,' this is a simple portrait of friendship, and an in-depth journey through Hotch's past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sneeze That Shook the World

The first explosive sneeze barely registered on David Rossi.

On some level he knew it had come from Hotch’s office, loud enough to make itself known through the adjoining wall. But Rossi was so mired down in his end-of-week paperwork, the sound didn’t disturb his concentration.

But by the fourth one, it was impossible to ignore.

Frowning, Rossi pushed back from his desk. Opening his office door, he stood listening in the entrance.

Another powerful nasal blast echoed through the BAU. J.J. came to her door and stepped out on the catwalk, giving Rossi a concerned look. Down in the bullpen, Morgan, Prentiss and Reid had stopped their own journeys through hard-copy hell to cast disbelieving glances up toward the corner office…Hotch’s lair.

The next sneeze actually elicited some grins and head shakes. When the following one was particularly wet and sounded as though it got crossed somehow with a burp or a cough, the reactions were more vocal.

“Ewwwwww…” Prentiss and J.J. both curled their lips and wrinkled their noses, rendering feminine judgment.

 “Oh, man. That was… _beautiful_.” Morgan’s opinion reflected the masculine appreciation of strange, bodily noises.

Reid looked worried, running statistics quietly through his brain about incubation periods for the most prevalent strains of the most common viruses, and trying to remember if he’d been particularly close to Hotch at any point during the last three to four days.

Rossi simply raised his brows and moved toward Hotch’s office door. Tapping twice, he opened it without waiting for a response. “Coming down with a cold, Aaron? Or maybe you’re allergic to, oh…I dunno… _Strauss_?!” He’d meant the comment as a joke, but when the Unit Chief raised his eyes, humor died under his rheumy glare.

“ ‘M okay… ‘m okay… ‘m o’….” Hotch never got to finish his trademark mantra of denial. The sneeze that attacked him nearly unseated him.

Rossi gave a small, sympathetic sigh. “Sure you are. You’re an absolute delight.” He moved to stand beside his friend. Looking down at him, he wondered how someone sitting could still look so unsteady. “Why did you even bother coming in, if you’re sick?”

“Not sick.” Hotch followed by clearing phlegm from his throat with a noise that Morgan would have applauded with awe, but would have sent Prentiss and J.J. diving for cover.

“Liar.” Rossi watched a flush and a light sheen of perspiration creep over his boss’ face. He couldn’t be sure if it was due to being caught in such a blatant lie, or fever. “Seriously, Aaron. What’s so important it couldn’t wait until you were feeling better? Huh?”

Hotch’s eyes were full of sad betrayal for the body that was letting him down when he answered. “I didn’ feel bad ‘til a couple hours ago. Hit… _really_ fast.”

Rossi looked him up and down, assessing the situation. _Flu. And if I don’t get him out of here, we’ll all have it. Might be too late already._ He gathered up Hotch’s briefcase and coat. He picked up the rapidly-emptying box of tissues on the edge of the desk and pushed them against Hotch’s chest, forcing him to take them. “You’ll need these. Now…” With a ginger touch that bespoke reluctance to come into contact with viral plague, Rossi took the nape of Hotch’s suit jacket between thumb and forefinger. He pulled up on it until the man took the hint and stood. “…I’m taking you home and putting you to bed.”

The responding sound might have been muffled English, or, more likely, some unholy noise of protest coming from Hotch’s digestive system.

Rossi marched his friend all the way around the perimeter on the catwalk instead of taking him directly through the bullpen. He was hoping to avoid contagion by keeping the diseased Unit Chief well away from the rest of the team. As for himself…

 _I had a flu shot. I’ve been good about that for years now. Maybe I’ll be spared._ He resisted the urge to cross himself when another sneeze tore Hotch from his grip. The ailing man stumbled from the force, fetching up against a wall.

They reached the door accessing the rest of the Bureau just in time to run into Garcia, on her way to spend her break with her favorite group of profilers. One look at Hotch’s hanging head and defeated posture clued her in.

“Ohhhh….Sir….” The eyes behind their striped aqua and green frames brimmed with compassion. “Ohhhh….”

Rossi hustled Hotch past the tech analyst. “Don’t touch him, Garcia. Don’t even _breathe_ around him, if you can help it.”

She clamped a be-ringed hand over her mouth; an attempt to keep infected air currents from targeting her. Once the two men had passed, Garcia turned her look of wide-eyed horror toward her compatriots down in the bullpen. It had to be bad to take their leader down.

“He is _really_ sick!”

Prentiss nodded, turning back to her full inbox. “Well, at least it seems to be respiratory and not stomach flu. That’s the worst.”

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Rossi came bursting back through the swinging, glass doors. He snagged the nearest small waste basket and exited again, moving fast down the hall and out of sight.

Concerned glances were exchanged.

J.J. shook her head. “Poor Hotch. I hope he isn’t throwing up in front of everyone. He’d hate that.”

Morgan shrugged. “Who wouldn’t? Bu-u-u-t, I think he’s probably past the point of caring about much of anything.” His next words were for Prentiss. “Guess stomach flu’s not entirely off the table.”

 

xxxxxxxx

 

After the bout of vomiting, Rossi pushed Hotch into the nearest men’s room.

While the Unit Chief rinsed out his mouth and splashed cool water over his face, hanging onto the sink for support, Rossi cleaned out the waste basket. It had been a near thing, but he’d managed to get it to Hotch in time. Still, several agents and staff had seen the leader of the BAU’s best team ralphing his guts out. His stoic veneer tarnished, Hotch looked truly miserable.

Rossi felt for his friend. It was one thing to be physically ill. It was quite another to feel humiliated. And while most people would only commiserate, Aaron Hotchner held himself to a higher standard. He abhorred showing weakness of any sort. For a man with a soft heart and a sweet spirit, he presented himself with the strength and solidity of an iron ingot. Losing his lunch in the middle of the hall, in front of an audience no less, struck at his spirit just as surely as whatever ailment he’d contracted struck at his body.

As Hotch leaned over the sink, trying to breathe past nasal congestion, Rossi thinned his lips in helpless sympathy and put a gentle hand on his back.

“We need to get you home, Aaron.”

After a few deep breaths, the weary head lifted; glazed eyes regarded Rossi. “Can’t. Told Jack I’d go get ‘im.”

Rossi’s brows raised. “You really want Jack to be around you when you’re like this?” The only response was a gusty sigh, but the look on the sick man’s face made Rossi think there was more to the story. “Tell me where Jack is and _I’ll_ get him. I’ll take him to his aunt’s, okay?”

Hotch pushed up off the ceramic edge of the sink. Standing tall with only a slight sway, he shook his head. “Already there. Got measles. Promised I’d pick ‘im up…bring ‘im home for th’ week’nd.

Rossi’s mouth quirked up at one corner in a rueful display of humor. “You’re not thinking straight, Aaron. If the poor kid’s got measles, you don’t want to infect him with flu, too.”

Watching his sick friend, he saw a sad, slow parody of an ‘A-ha!’ moment as Hotch realized the truth of what he was being told. It registered in slumped posture and another mighty sneeze, followed by a moan.

Rossi patted his back again. “So the Hotchner boys are down and out for the next few days. I’ll call Jessica. She’ll explain it to Jack. And then we’ll get you to bed where you belong. Sound good?”

Hotch hugged his arms around himself, pulling in, trying to hide feeling weak. Rossi recognized the pose and the intent behind it. He readied himself for a certain amount of argument.

He was almost relieved when a truly alarming noise, that appeared to emanate from the proximity of the Unit Chief’s stomach, growled its way into the restroom silence. Hotch had been about to speak. But the sound was far more eloquent than anything he could have offered.

Finally defeated, he let Rossi lead him out of the men’s room, and down to the garage.

 


	2. Broken Promise

Rossi maneuvered Hotch all the way to the garage before encountering further resistance.

Walking with the truncated steps of a zombie, clutching his nearly empty box of tissues, Hotch made a purposeful path for his car. Rossi arrested his movement with, again, a grip on the nape of his suit jacket. The Unit Chief looked a little bedraggled, being lifted by his scruff.

“No.” Rossi pulled him around, indicating what he considered the only acceptable destination: his BMW. “You’re not driving. One sneeze and you’ll take out an entire lane of oncoming traffic.”

Hotch snuffled wetly. “ ‘kay. Jus’ take me ‘ome.”

Rossi shook his head. “No. You’re bunking at my place.” Hotch’s long-suffering look conveyed his opinion of that proposal. Rossi tried to make it sound more palatable.

“Look, you’re in no shape to do anything but fall into bed. We’ll go to my place. You’ll get some rest. I’ll look in on you from time to time, and…if you’re a good boy, and if you feel better tomorrow… _then_ I’ll take you home.” Rossi ducked his head a little to make eye contact with his increasingly dragging friend. “Deal?”

He interpreted the deep, rib-splitting cough as a ‘yes’.

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

Hotch hunched himself into a miserable, little ball up against the window of the passenger seat during the ride to Rossi’s mansion. Having given in to the whole plan of being cared for, the iron will that had kept him in denial, kept him moving, had finally crumbled. Hotch let himself wallow in his symptoms.

During the twenty minute drive, he cataloged them.

Sneezing. Explosive and bone-shaking.

Nasal congestion that felt as though it was moving down into his chest by heavy, wet, breath-stealing increments.

Nausea. The groans and exclamations of co-workers who’d seen him in the hallway, head buried in the wastebasket Rossi had thankfully provided, still haunted him.

Fever. Sweat was breaking out on his body. The only relief was the chill that usually followed.

Muscle aches. They’d been the first thing to hit; the first sign that something was wrong. He’d been sitting at his desk, just fine…and then he’d stood up to reach a book in the case lining the wall behind him. Head to toe, it felt as though someone had worked him over with a mallet and then added finishing touches with a sledge hammer. The aches had made him hide in his office, praying it would all go away. But the other symptoms had gathered anyway, joining forces with evil intent.

Cough. It was a relatively new development, but promised to torment what little breath the nasal congestion allowed him.

Irritated eyes. They were becoming more watery and light-sensitive by the moment. At least, in his irascible, unhappy mood, that’s what it seemed like. He raised his head to check, looking out at the dull, overcast sky. The muted light lanced into his brain, making him wince. The motion of looking up clued him in to another new aspect of his developing illness.

Dizziness.

Hotch lowered his spinning head and moaned at the unfairness, the injustice of it all.

Jack needed him. He’d promised they’d spend the weekend together, monitoring the progress of his son’s red rash. For some reason, the boy found the word ‘measles’ inherently funny. He’d told his worried father that it sounded like an invasion of tiny, angry aliens…a cross between mice and weasels.

Despite his concern, Hotch had laughed. He’d also teared up a little.

Whenever _he’d_ been ill as a boy, he’d tried to hide it. Drawing attention, any kind at all, had been a dangerous business in the Hotchner household. He’d tried to forget most of the experiences that had formed him, but he did recall having a number of hiding places where he’d retreat until either his father wasn’t around to punish him for getting sick, or the worst of whatever malady that gripped him had passed.

He remembered mumps, and colds, and mono, and innumerable injuries at his father’s hands. But he’d never contracted measles. Even when his friends had been laid up, their bodies itching with spots, and he’d gone over to keep them company… _What a nice child Mr. Hotchner’s boy is…so considerate to visit our Johnny!_...little knowing that Mr. Hotchner’s boy would do anything, risk anything, to stay away from his own home…Even when young Aaron had exposed himself over and over to the disease, measles had passed him by.

One of the few torments that had.

So now, feeling sick, and weak, and unworthy, Hotch hated that he wouldn’t be there for Jack.

It hurt worse than any of the symptoms ravaging his body. It hurt worse than hearing ‘Is that Aaron Hotchner?’ while he’d been ears-deep in the wastebasket, vomiting, while Rossi held onto his shoulders.

He curled in on himself tighter, and, in a dazed return to the rules of his upbringing, tried to hide his distress.

 

 xxxxxxxx

 

Rossi glanced over at the man in the passenger seat and expelled a long, sympathetic breath. Hotch seemed to be trying to burrow into the corner where the seat met the door. Even with the luxurious construction of this top-of-the-line BMW sedan, Rossi didn’t imagine huddling against leather-padded steel could be very comforting. When a small whimper escaped his friend, Rossi reached a hand over and patted the back turned toward him.

“Hang on, Aaron. You’ll feel better when you can lie down and rest.” Another thought occurred to him that, as a car owner, made him a little nervous. “And if you need the wastebasket again, it’s right near your feet. Okay?”

“ ‘M fine.”

Rossi shook his head at the stubbornness. “Of course you are. That little noise you just made must mean you’re the picture of health and happiness.”

Disturbed by being misinterpreted; wanting to clarify that he was distressed over abandoning Jack, not selfishly pitying himself, Hotch raised his dizzy head. “Don’ un’erstan’, Dave.” Any further explanation was cut off by a sneeze that Rossi was pretty sure left its mark on his cordovan leather interior.

He sighed. “Well, you can explain everything after I get you to bed….and you’ve had a little nap…maybe some cold medicine…soup…hot tea…Vicks VapoRub…”

Rossi pulled into his driveway, trying to remember what else he might already have on hand that could help a man weather a few days of illness.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Ordinarily, Rossi enjoyed the feeling of opulence he got walking into the foyer of his mansion. He’d earned it with hard work, persistence, and, admittedly, a hefty dose of good luck. And the journey hadn’t been all rainbows and roses. He felt he’d earned his lifestyle with heartache, loss, and pain as well.

But at the end of a trying day, or coming home from a case that tore at one’s soul, it usually did his heart good to step inside and look up at the graceful sweep of his ornately railed staircase. That, more than anything else, spoke to him, saying ‘you are successful and deserving of this…welcome home, David Rossi.’

However, with two briefcases tucked under his arm, and his best friend in a firm, supportive hold, the serene curve of the stairs was more a challenge than a status symbol. Rossi deposited both his and Hotch’s coats and cases on a convenient foyer table. Wishing he could spare Hotch’s dignity and minimize the appearance of the amount of help he needed to ascend to the second floor, Rossi kept an arm around his waist, moving him along step by step. He maintained a soothing monologue the entire way.

“That’s it, Aaron. One step at a time…up you go…one more…that’s a good boy…almost there…take it slow…easy does it…”

For his part, Hotch was trying to keep from overbalancing. The dizziness he’d first suspected in the car was much more noticeable once he was on his feet. But try as he would, his concentration was splintering into useless fragments. The only part he fought to keep from disappearing into a fevered mist was his promise to Jack. He _had_ to remember to tell Rossi. Even if he himself failed, he knew he could rely on his best friend to understand how important it was to be there for his son in times of sickness. How vital it was to honor promises.

He just had to keep his wits about him long enough to tell Dave.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Atta boy…the-e-e-e-re we go…” Depositing Hotch on the bed in the nearest guest room, Rossi heaved a sigh of relief.

So did Hotch. He expelled a shaky, congested breath and squinted up at his friend. There was something he needed to say before he let himself go.

“Jack…”

“Shhhhhhh….” A heavy hand on his chest, pressed Hotch down, forcing him to lie back. “I know, Aaron. Jack has measles. You told me. He can’t come here and risk picking up whatever strain of flu this is.” Rossi moved with quiet efficiency as he spoke, removing shoes, belt, tie; slipping jacket and dress shirt off. When Hotch tried to interrupt the process, levering himself up on his elbows, hoping to make Rossi listen to him, the heavy hand pushed him down again.

“Aaron, you’re not thinking clearly. I know you want to be with your son, but it’s not a good idea right now.” Rossi slipped the pants off, thankful that they were loose enough to come down easily. “You remember what it was like to have measles? When you were a kid?”

He pulled a light blanket up over the shivering body. “Measles are bad enough. Don’t need to complicate things with another disease. Remember?”

Hotch coughed and rolled onto his side, talking with labored, congested breath. “Never had measles. Promised Jack…be there. _Promised_.”

Rossi leaned over the bed, looking down at the earnest expression on his friend’s face.

“And you always keep your promises to Jack. Or at least you do your best.” He smoothed damp hair off the clammy, pallid forehead; a gesture of sympathy and understanding. “I’ll go make the call right now and explain everything, _if_ you’ll lie still. Okay?” The sad eyes looking back at Rossi told him Hotch wouldn’t be cutting himself any slack. _Always taking blame and demanding more of himself than is humanly possible._ “I’ll be right back.” Rossi rose. When he reached the doorway, he looked back at the coughing, sneezing mess watching him.

“How ‘bout I bring you some soup? Do you think you could eat?”

Hotch gave a low moan and turned his face into the pillow, hiding his eyes from the light that hurt them, and trying to hide from his self-judgment. Another promise to his son…broken.

Rossi sighed. “Guess not.” He considered the situation. “Well, I’ll make the call and, if Jack’s up to it, you can talk to him yourself. Is that better?”

One eye appeared, a glazed, but hopeful, glint in it.

Rossi nodded. “Okay. That’s the plan then. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

As he trotted down the stairs…a much easier trip than the one coming up…he pulled his phone out, looking through the contacts for Jessica Brooks, Jack’s aunt. But his mind was still on Aaron.

_Never seen flu hit so fast or so hard. Maybe there’s a new strain around. I’ll have to check on that._


	3. Rash Action

Rossi was almost as disappointed as he knew Hotch would be when he found out Jack was asleep and wouldn’t be able to talk to his father.

But Jessica understood the circumstances and said she was perfectly willing to keep her nephew for as long as necessary. Still, Rossi could hear a note of unease in her voice. She’d probably had plans of her own that would need to be canceled in light of both the Hotchner boys’ ill health.

He hung up feeling a little guilty for assuming the woman would be so readily available on such short notice. _But who gives notice before getting sick?_ He resolved to keep any suspicion of reluctance on Jessica’s part a secret from Hotch. The poor man was suffering enough.

 _And speaking of suffering…_ Rossi knew his guest wouldn’t feel like eating, especially if he wasn’t able to talk to his son. Hotch’s appetite was always the first casualty when anything bad happened to him or to his loved ones. It was also a barometer of how affected he was when a case they were working hit at him particularly hard. _And considering the frequency with which **that** happens, it’s a wonder he has any meat on his bones at all. Still,…_ he tried to find a silver lining… _his grocery bill must be next to nothing._

Rossi trudged back upstairs.

Before going in to check on Hotch, and to give him the news that he’d have to wait to touch bases with his ‘Buddy,’ Rossi stopped in the master bathroom. He pawed through the medicine cabinet and a couple of drawers where things that weren’t used regularly were tossed into a disorganized jumble. Setting aside a thermometer and a small box that claimed an envelope of its contents, if dissolved in hot water, would relieve virtually all the miseries associated with flu, Rossi contemplated a cobalt blue, plastic jar.

Vick’s VapoRub.

He’d bought it for himself a couple of winters ago when he’d felt a cold coming on. But as soon as he’d opened it and smelled the potent, mentholated odor, he’d changed his mind. Now he stared at it, weighing the unpleasantness of the smell against the good it might do. Hotch’s congestion was much worse than his had been. And he could tell it was moving deeper into his friend’s chest. The sound of a ragged, wheezing cough emanating from the guest room decided him. Rossi gave the jar a little toss, caught it deftly and added it to his small, pharmaceutical arsenal.

Carrying his haul from the bathroom, he headed back toward Hotch, thankful that the man’s chest was virtually hairless. It would make applying the thick, waxy VapoRub much easier.

_And he’s so congested, I bet the menthol doesn’t even register. I could probably tell him it’s a new, improved version that smells like bacon, or the ocean, or scotch, and he wouldn’t be able to tell differently._

Any other time Rossi would have taken mischievous delight in making Hotch believe he smelled wonderful and then sending him out into society, reeking of fumes that would drive people away in droves. But now he wiped the small, speculative grin from his face. He reprimanded himself; at the moment, jokes at poor Aaron’s expense would be wildly inappropriate.

Later maybe…when he could defend himself. But not now.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Hotch looked up hopefully when Rossi entered the room. It would hurt when those hopes were dashed.

The older agent tried to cover his regret at being the bearer of bad news by depositing his handful of flu-combating aids on top of a nightstand, and plumping a stack of pillows at Hotch’s back. He tried to put a good spin on the gist of his phone call with Jessica.

“Jack’s fine, Aaron. He’s asleep at the moment…which is a very good thing. And as soon as he wakes up, you can talk to him.” Rossi avoided eye contact. _Assuming you’re in any shape to carry on a lucid conversation, that is._

He had a feeling Hotch was hanging on for his son’s sake; that, given another hour or two, the fever would take him a few steps past the threshold and into the land of delirium. And there was no way he’d permit Jack to speak to his father if there was even the slightest possibility that the man would begin raving. So he gave the pillows a final pat and forced some cheer into his voice.

“And Jessica said she’ll be glad to look after him until you’re well enough to take him back.” Hotch was watching very closely, eyes narrowed…and not just because the light hurt them. “So…” Rossi brushed his hands together in a that’s-that kind of gesture. “…we’re all set and there’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Liar.” The word was a croak, but it carried a powerful dose of accusation.

“What?!” Rossi responded to the bleary scowl with wary indignation. He didn’t like being caught in a lie, and he didn’t see how Hotch could know that’s exactly what he’d done.

Hotch tried to push himself upright, but failed to do  more than flounder among the stacked pillows. “Jess’ca’s leavin’ t’morrow. Vacation…” One of the cough-sneeze combos cut the rest of Aaron’s speech short.

Rossi’s head bowed in sudden understanding of the tone in Jessica’s voice. She _did_ have plans. Apparently, big ones, if she was ‘leaving’ for some destination. Using that particular terminology usually meant airfare…hotel reservations…nonrefundable fees. But bringing Jack in while his father was in the worst throes of flu just wasn’t a viable option.

“Aaron, I’m sorry.” The look on Hotch’s face was inconsolable. Rossi hated his part in putting it there. He chewed on the inside of one cheek and considered his options. “Look, let me get you a little more settled. Then, I’ll call Jessica back and we’ll work something out.”

Hotch’s sad eyes didn’t blink. They squinted, but they didn’t blink. Rossi tried again.

“This is a big house, Aaron. There are rooms I never use. I could put Jack in one of them and at least you two would be under the same roof.” The bruised look in the dark depths of the eyes lightened ever so slightly. Rossi ran with it. “I still don’t think you should be in breathing distance of each other until I know this flu thing isn’t contagious any more, but maybe knowing he’s nearby will help both of you. Wha’d’ya think?”

Hotch nodded. Or at least Rossi thought that’s what the gesture was. He could tell there was a touch of vertigo involved when it morphed into more of a circular reeling than the classic up-and-down motion. The gaze was a little unfocused now, too.

“N’more lies.”

“Alright. I’m sorry. No more lies.” Rossi pushed his advantage. “ _IF_ , that is, you’ll settle down and let me try to make you more comfortable.” Then he took _un_ fair advantage. “You want to look like you’re winning the flu-battle when Jack sees you. Otherwise, looking like you do, you might scare the spots right off the poor kid.”

Any triumph Hotch might have been feeling…dissipated…replaced by concern, and the desire to look strong for his son. Rossi saw the emotions play across his friend’s face. That, more than almost anything, told him how poorly Hotch was feeling. When he was in good health, the man looked to be hewn from granite. Now, he didn’t have the energy or clarity of mind to maintain his trademark façade. Feelings gripped him, turning the tables and taking control rather than being controlled.

Rossi sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m not trying to be mean, Aaron. But _if_ I bring Jack here, it would be better if you weren’t struggling for oxygen with each breath. If _I’m_ worried, imagine how a little kid who loves you and thinks you’re indestructible will feel.”

Hotch stared into the older man’s eyes, reading the truth of what he was saying. Rossi could tell he’d won when Aaron let himself relax back into the mounded pillows. The tension ran out of his muscles. With a ragged sigh, he closed his eyes and nodded. But there was still one worry of his own that Hotch had to address.

“I don’ wanna infec’ you either.”

Rossi smiled “I’ve had my flu shot. I’ll take my chances.” When Hotch didn’t pursue the argument, he considered the battle won. “Okay, now.” He gave the sick man a considering look. “I’m thinking you need something to help with congestion so you can rest. Once we get that taken care of, I’ll call Jessica and fix this mess.”

Rossi continued talking in soothing tones while he retrieved the VapoRub from the nightstand.

“So I guess Jack didn’t inherit your natural immunity to measles.” He nodded to himself sagely. “I grew up with someone like that. I was laid up with rash and cough and all the rest, but she breezed on through childhood without ever having to go through any of it.” He shook his head at the strange fortune bestowed on some people. “Didn’t seem fair.”

Rossi unscrewed the lid of the jar. His nose wrinkled involuntarily at the powerful fumes. He shot a quick, furtive look at Hotch to see if the aroma was registering on his incapacitated olfactory senses. But his gaze was glassy and distant. _If he can’t smell this, it means he really needs it._

“Aaron, I need to spread some of this on your chest. It’ll feel warm…maybe tingle a little…but it’ll make it easier for you to get air into your lungs.”

Hotch didn’t seem too interested. _He’s exhausted and he’s suffering. The sooner this stuff gets to work on him, the better._ Rossi set the small jar down. He moved the blanket a little lower, granting access to the hem of Hotch’s t-shirt.

“I need to get to your chest, Aaron.”

Rossi used both hands to ease Hotch’s shirt up. He gave his head a rueful shake as the ribs were exposed. Labored breathing made their prominence seem even more pathetic than usual. _Maybe while I have him here I can feed him up a little. He should build up his reserves for times like this._

Rossi managed to push the thin fabric all the way up to the collarbones…

…and froze.

Stark against Hotch’s pale skin was a livid, red rash, creeping its way down both sides of his chest.


	4. Spot Check

“Aww, Jeez.” Rossi’s reaction to the rash invading Hotch’s torso was quiet, heartfelt, and horrified.

Hotch had gone limp, head turned away, submitting to being cared for by whatever means his friend deemed appropriate. The hope of getting Jack back was a powerful incentive for obedience. But when he felt air on his chest and realized he was being stared at, Hotch opened his eyes, confronting the situation as seen through his fevered, impaired judgment.

“Stop it, Dave.” The Unit Chief’s voice was hoarse and weary. “You’ve seen my scars before. Don’t look at me.”

With the gentlest touch he could manage, Rossi lowered Hotch’s shirt back into place. No sooner had he done so than one of the sick man’s hands came up and absently rubbed at one side of his chest. Rossi grabbed the wrist and held in up in a firm grip.

“Don’t scratch.” He pressed the arm down to the mattress. “And it’s not your scars that have me worried.” He gave a deep sigh. “I guess it’s ‘like father, like son’ after all…you’ve got measles, Aaron.”

Hotch didn’t look too alarmed for himself. Through eyelids too heavy to open more than halfway, he still managed to give Rossi an expectant look. “So I c’n have Jack?”

The effort Hotch was putting into hanging on, into following a train of thought that would lead him to his son, touched the older man’s heart. But he wasn’t ready to commit to promising that father-son reunion, even if it seemed to be the only thing keeping Hotch from resting. He considered his words with care, basing them on the actions he felt were necessary. It would have been easy to lie and tell Hotch that he’d go get Jack so the man would relax, but he’d said ‘no more lies.’ And before he brought the child into his house, he wanted to be sure there would be no ill consequences.

Rossi patted the flat stomach…at least there wasn’t any rash to irritate there. Yet. “I promise I’ll do what’s best for both you and Jack. That’s all I can say for now, Aaron. But first, I’ll make sure Jessica knows she doesn’t need to miss her vacation and I’ll make you a little more comfortable. Be back in a minute.”

He rose and retraced his steps to the bathroom, flipping his phone on once he was out of earshot.

 

xxxxxxxxxx

 

“Hi, Rossi. How’s Hotch?” Reid had answered on the first ring.

“Not good.” He was searching through the medicine drawer again; this time for something to help with fever and pain, as well as anything that would soothe itching skin. “He’s got measles, Reid.”

There was a beat of silence as the young genius’ encyclopedic brain accessed everything he knew about the disease when an adult was struck down by it. Having seen the state in which Hotch left work, something else was bothering Reid, too.

“You’re sure it’s measles?”

“He’s got the rash and it’s spreading downward. So…yeah…I’m pretty sure.” Rossi frowned; Reid didn’t ask pointless questions. “Why?”

“Measles is progressive; it’s a sequential disease. Hotch was hit by vomiting, sneezing, cough within the space of a few hours and I’d say it was severe. Onset of measles is usually milder and takes place over a few days. The severe fever and the worst part of the rash are simultaneous, but days later. Usually, anyway.”

Rossi paused in the act of reading the warning label on a tube of cortisone cream. “Are you trying to tell me something, Reid?”

“I’m not saying he _doesn’t_ have measles.” A note of discomfort at being the harbinger of bad news crept into the cautious voice. “I think he probably has something else, too. Like…maybe…flu…like you thought. Maybe. On top of measles.”

Rossi stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, watching realization dawn over his own face that things might be even worse than originally suspected.

Rossi was a child of the pre-computer age. He’d grown up in a house that contained a set of Encyclopedia Britannica. The series of books had been the main source of research for any question that came up. Now, when he needed quick answers on virtually any subject, Spencer Reid had become his source, his set of volumes containing the knowledge of the ages. But Reid wasn’t as safe as looking something up in a book; a book that could be closed after the one piece of data you sought had been read. Sometimes Reid provided more information than expected. And sometimes it wasn’t welcome news.

Since making the young agent’s acquaintance, Rossi had learned, one: you couldn’t shut the cover and put Reid back on the shelf, two: the genius usually had a good reason for giving you more than you wanted to know, and three: ignorance really was bliss. Potentially dangerous. But, oh, so blissful while it lasted.

“The reason I called, Reid, was because I know measles is a whole different ballgame when an adult gets it.” He snagged a bottle of aspirin out of the medicine cabinet. “I wanted to know what to look out for. But now you’re telling me this has already escalated to…what?...some kind of designer plague?...measles mixed with the flu virus?”

He could hear Reid’s exhalation. He’d been holding his breath, waiting for Rossi to realize and accept the potential gravity of the situation.

“There are other infections that can make inroads on his body, but most adults get over it on their own, if they just take care of themselves.” Reid could hear doubt in the silence that followed what he considered an optimistic statement. “Hotch pushes himself, Rossi. We all know that. He takes risks with his own health that he’d _never_ allow anyone else to. I think, if the rash has appeared, he’s been feeling bad for days. But he kept going and another virus took advantage of his weakened state.”

Rossi could feel a tiny frisson of anger at Aaron’s self-neglect. Now wouldn’t do any good, but he vowed that once Hotch was well, or at least over the hump and on the mend, there would be a very long, very one-sided discussion about the downside of self-sacrifice.

Hotch had never learned how to balance himself between all the different demands life placed on him. _Rather, the demands he places on **himself**. _ Rossi frowned. _First things first. You can yell at Aaron later._

“So, Dr. Reid, how do you think I should handle a stubborn, sick man who wants his measle-ridden son to join him?”

He could almost hear the gears clicking in the finely-wrought machine that was Reid’s brain.

“Hotch hates doctors and hospitals, but I’d say he needs someone to look at him. This isn’t a normal case.” There was a pause before Reid asked a hopeful question. “Do you know anyone who’d make a house call? The measles has to be reported anyway in case there’s a general outbreak, but if you can get the go-ahead from a physician to keep Hotch with you, I’d feel a lot better. Then at least we’d rule out that he needs hospitalization right now.”

Rossi nodded, a small smile twitching his lips upward as he found a bottle of cortisone spray…a leftover from last year’s duck hunting foray into mosquito country. And perfect for the current situation.

“I do have some connections. I’ll see about getting a doctor over here. Anything else you can think of I might need to know?”

“Just that Hotch’s vulnerable to other infections right now. Be on the lookout for pneumonia in particular.” Reid paused, remembering the last time Hotch’s health had been an issue. “We were able to catch it last time…you know…after Haley…well, you know…”

Rossi _did_ know. The aftermath of Haley’s murder had sent Hotch to one of the lowest, darkest places he’d ever been. It had taken a team effort to pull him back. Rossi was sure this wouldn’t be as bad. The primary problem was physical. As far as he knew, the emotional pain they’d uncovered in Foyet’s sadistic wake didn’t apply this time. _Thank God._

“Wha’d you think about my bringing Jack over here?”

“Keep them apart until we know more about the flu thing. And didn’t Jack get inoculated before he went to school? He should’ve. And if he still contracted this, then he must be _really_ vulnerable to the virus. I’d hate to think what would’ve happened if he _hadn’t_ had the vaccine.”

Rossi tried to recall Jack’s entry into the educational system. It had been around the time Hotch was at his worst. J.J. had found the school and enrolled the boy. Poor Aaron probably still felt guilty about his non-participation.

Rossi sighed. There was more to be looked into than he’d anticipated.

“I don’t know, Reid. Right now I’m juggling a few balls and just trying to get each one into its proper place.”

“Anything I can do to help?” Reid couldn’t tell if the hesitation that followed his question was because Rossi was reluctant to involve the team again in the care and feeding of Aaron Hotchner, or if he was going down his list of priorities to see where help was needed. Reid decided to lay the former concern to rest.

“You should know that Garcia’s already planning a menu for you guys. What I’ve heard is you’ll be getting her signature, homemade, chicken soup for starters, followed by what she calls ‘recovery’ food.”

“ ‘Recovery’ food?”

“I know. I’m not sure what that would be, but I think it involves chocolate and cookies…maybe gingerbread, too.”

Both men smiled, thinking of Garcia blissfully at home in her kitchen, doing what she loved best for the people she loved most.

“So if you need help, Rossi, you know we’re already there.”

The older man felt the tiny tug at his emotions that always accompanied the realization that, although family-less in the traditional sense, he was a member of one of the best. “Thanks, Reid. Maybe you could touch bases with J.J. about the pre-school vaccination thing? And let me know if you think of anything else I should be on the lookout for with Hotch…and Jack.”

“Sure. So you’re gonna bring Jack in?”

Rossi smiled. It had taken being reminded that he was part of a family to acknowledge the bolstering, healing properties of those emotional ties. Having Jack nearby, even if he couldn’t be in the same room or breathe the same air, would go a long way toward restoring Hotch, body and soul.

“I am. Tomorrow, so his aunt can go on a vacation she’s been planning. And I’ll get a doctor in here today so I know how to handle the Hotchners.” Rossi felt better about the whole situation, having a plan of action. “Thanks, kid.”

“No problem.”

Rossi was about to disconnect when Reid’s voice stopped him.

“Rossi! Wait!”

He brought the phone back up. “I’m here.”

“The cough. Hotch’s ribs on the left side…where Foyet…” The sound of Reid swallowing was audible. “…where Foyet _concentrated_ his…work…If Hotch’s coughing gets violent enough, he’s gonna feel it there. Maybe even re-damage the original injury.”

Rossi sighed. _Poor guy can’t catch a break. And he’s never really going to be free of the worst time of his life._

 


	5. Show and Tell

Gathering up the bottles of aspirin and cortisone spray, Rossi’s next task was to call in a favor from his past.

 

xxxxxx

 

Martin Palmer’s service in Viet Nam had been short, but memorable. He’d been a doctor who’d just finished his internship, specializing in Internal Medicine when he’d seen uncensored footage of the atrocities mankind could inflict on itself in the name of war. His patriotism was unquestionable, but he’d signed on more for the love of his fellow man than for love of country. He just couldn’t sit by, building a profitable practice, enjoying all the comforts of home, when there was so much suffering elsewhere in the world.

Viet Nam had been the first outlet for his humanitarianism.

If it hadn’t been for David Rossi, it would have been his last as well.

When Dr. Palmer had been hit by friendly fire from a sentry who’d spooked at the flare of a match he’d been using to light a cigarette from his ever-dwindling supply, Rossi had been the one who’d kept his head and applied a life-saving tourniquet. The outpost was in the process of bugging out. Palmer was the only remaining member of the medical crew. In the dead of night, with minimal supplies, he’d talked the anxious, impossibly young Rossi through the process of extracting the bullet, and cleaning and suturing the wound. Palmer had passed out a few times during the operation, but every time he managed to come back, the Marine had been there. And always, as soon as he’d seen awareness in the doctor’s eyes, he’d asked in a voice that was frightened, but faithful, “What do I do next? Tell me what to do.”

Palmer knew Rossi had saved him from slowly bleeding out. And, although the job he’d done lacked finesse and would need to be corrected by a professional in the days and weeks to come, he also knew that the Marine’s determination and courage had been instrumental in saving his arm.

Martin Palmer was sent home, but because of Rossi, he was able to continue practicing medicine with two good hands. He went on to participate in CARE, Doctors without Borders, International Red Cross, and the Mercy Corps.

Over the years, he’d been in other dangerous situations, but it wasn’t until the hut he was bunking in fell apart during a tropical storm, leaving him with a broken leg and a jagged cut running on a diagonal from shoulder to hip, that he decided to come back home to the U.S..

Saving the world was a game for younger men, and he felt he’d finally earned the right to rest.

Still, he continued to practice in clinics that were underfunded and understaffed. The light in his heart that made him want to help others glowed as warmly as ever.

It was Martin whom Rossi called now.

It was Martin who grabbed his worn, little black bag and headed out the door, smiling at the good fortune that allowed him an opportunity to show his gratitude. _Good for me…probably not so much for Dave’s sick friend._

 

xxxxxx

 

Rossi had called Jessica, telling her not to cancel any vacation plans.

A doctor was on his way to evaluate Hotch. Afterwards, he would know more about the feasibility of installing Jack in his home. But he guaranteed that even if he had to hire a private nurse and put the boy someplace in quarantine, he’d accomplish it tomorrow, so Jessica could leave with a clear conscience, knowing the Hotchner boys were cared for.

He only had time to tell Hotch where things stood, and to make him take an aspirin, when he heard the doorbell announcing the arrival of Dr. Palmer. He hurried to greet his friend.

“Marty.”

“Dave.”

And then Dr. Palmer demonstrated the strength in the arm he owed to Rossi by employing it to give him a powerful hug. Both men’s thoughts were transported back to a steamy, midnight-dark jungle. The physical contact communicated more than hours of dialogue ever could. When they released and stepped back from each other, there was no need to delve any deeper into the past. It was in their eyes, in the very blocks from which they were built, and each recognized it in the other.

Smiling, Rossi pulled himself back to the present. “It’s been a long time, Marty. Thanks for coming.”

“As though anything could stop me. Other than friendly fire.” A mischievous grin made its appearance, acknowledging the debt he would always owe. “It’s good to see you, Dave.”

Rossi sighed. “I wish it was under other circumstances. Like I said over the phone…I’ve got a man upstairs who’s sick as a dog…”

The doctor nodded, continuing the scenario Dave had painted for him. “…and he wants his son.” He glanced at the grand, sweeping staircase and his grin grew wider, pleased at the obvious success the former Marine had attained. “Well, lead the way. I’ll need to examine him before I can give any stamp of approval on bringing his boy here.”

As the two men began ascending the stairs, Rossi spoke in a lowered, more confidential tone. “Something you should know: he’s been through a lot. And he has the _scars_ to show for it.”

Martin read between the lines with a skill developed from years of working with the injured and the ill. “Little self-conscious, is he?”

“Only if you catch him shirtless.”

“So you didn’t just call me for my medical prowess?” The doctor’s chuckle was deep and genuine. “You always did have a knack for using the resources at hand.”

Rossi’s smile was rueful. “You don’t mind?”

“If I think your boy needs it, I’ll do a little show-and-tell.”

“Thanks, Marty.”

“Any time.”

 

xxxxxxxxxx

 

Hotch was hanging on.

He needed to know what would be happening with Jack before he could allow himself to give in to the sickness that was making him miserable. And he was already regretting the aspirin Dave had insisted would make him feel better.

His stomach was where he felt things first. It spent a great deal of time tied in knots and drenched in acid. It was why his appetite was so poor in light of the emotional fallout of the cases they worked. Currently, it was very empty, which was fine with Hotch. A full stomach was a stomach at risk for vomiting. He’d had enough of that. But aspirin was not an empty stomach’s friend. He could feel a general burning sensation as the pill dissolved into his system.

Other than that, he felt…terrible.

When the sound of low conversation approaching in the hallway registered, Hotch realized one of his ears hurt, too. There was an ache deep inside. His eyes were increasingly sensitive as well. When Rossi and his doctor friend reached the doorway, Hotch squinted at them, unable to prevent himself from sneezing a greeting that quickly morphed into a cough.

Martin’s eyebrows rose. He knew Dave wasn’t an alarmist when he said someone was sick, but even from several yards away the doctor could tell this was one miserable specimen. And he was trying to downplay his affliction. There was a defiant ‘Yeah? So?’ glint in the rheumy eyes and the attempt to pull himself upright to seem more vigorous and vigilant. He could almost see the thought bubble above the sick man’s head: _I’m fine. Bring me my son._ Martin found such a stubborn example of fatherly devotion endearing. His smile was almost affectionate as he approached the bed.

“Dr. Martin Palmer, may I introduce SSA Aaron Hotchner.” Rossi performed the social pleasantries and stood aside, letting the doctor begin his examination.

“Hi, Doc.” Hotch’s voice was raspy. The doctor could tell breathing didn’t come easy.

“Mr. Hotchner.” He took a seat on the edge of the bed, setting his bag at his feet. “Dave tells me you might have measles and maybe something else, too?”

He tilted his head back and studied the face before him. It was flushed. The eyes were watery and irritated. Reaching out, he touched the chin and turned the head to one side. “Ah, I see.”

Rossi was instantly alert. “What?”

“Measles. The rash usually starts around the head and then progresses downward. Behind the ears is a common place for it to take hold.” He released Hotch’s chin. “And it has.” The redness had spread down the neck and disappeared beneath the collar of the man’s t-shirt.

 _Now comes the delicate part_. “Let me help you off with your shirt, Mr. Hotchner. I need to examine you …” He played a hopeful bargaining chip. “…before I decide if it’s alright for you to be reunited with your son.”

Hotch swayed, having trouble maintaining his stiff I’m-okay posture. Both older men could see the combination of reluctance and defeat washing over his features. He slumped, abandoning the effort to impress everyone with his ability to sit straight. Coughing and sniffling, Hotch nodded.

Martin slipped the shirt off, aware that, even as bleary as he was, his patient was watching for his reaction. He was glad Rossi had warned him. Despite the atrocities he’d seen throughout his career, the doctor felt a wave of sympathy as the scars were revealed.

The torso was lean and fit. Clearly this was a man who took pride in maintaining his body. The injuries were an insult that struck deep into the core of his self-image. Martin placed a gentle hand in the center of the chest, covering most of the longest, heaviest scar. When he looked at Hotch’s face, he saw the same look he’d seen in so many, many other victims. Eye contact was refused. He was mentally absenting himself. It was a survival tactic, a way to hide.

Martin let the warmth of his palm sink in. He could feel the rapid heartbeat; partially due to illness, but also attributable to the experience of the patient’s letting a stranger touch him in such a private way. When he spoke, the doctor kept his voice low and devoid of judgment.

“How long ago did this happen to you, son?”

“Couple years.” Coughing followed, making the chest jump against the doctor’s hand.

“That’s not much time to heal.”

There was a flicker in the depths of the eyes, but they still wouldn’t look up.

 “I’m a fas’ healer.” An irritating almost-sneeze cut short anything else Hotch might have said.

“I don’t mean here…” Martin pressed his palm slightly flatter against the scar tissue. Then, he moved it to rest over the man’s heart. “I mean here…” He moved it up to lay his fingertips against the too-warm forehead. “…and here.”

Slowly, by increments, Hotch’s eyes came up to meet the doctor’s. Martin removed his hand, careful to keep from glancing back at the scars, holding his patient’s sad gaze with his own.

“Miracles happen overnight. But healing takes as long as it takes. It’s a natural process that moves at its own pace.”

Keeping his eyes locked with Hotch’s, the doctor unbuttoned his own shirt, pulling the fabric back to reveal a long, ropy scar starting at his right collarbone and traveling across his body until it disappeared under the left side of his waistband. He watched Hotch’s eyes drop and trace the path of the jagged, raised, white mark.

“It’s been fifteen years for me. Give yourself time, son.” Martin left his shirt open, letting his scar show as he reached for the medical bag at his feet. Extracting a stethoscope, he looked back at Hotch with an understanding smile. “Now, let’s see what else is going on with you.”

He raised the disc, breathed on it to warm it, and placed it against his patient’s chest.

Eyes still fastened on the doctor’s horrendous scar…Hotch let him.


	6. The Truth in Dreams

Rossi’s presence was unobtrusive during the doctor’s examination of Hotch.

He stayed in the background, trying to gauge the severity of his friend’s condition based on Martin’s facial expressions. But Martin was an expert at keeping himself low-key. Through it all, he remained calmly noncommittal.

Snuffling and flushed as Hotch was, he strove to equal the doctor’s inscrutability. But he couldn’t keep his eyes from returning to the openly displayed scar. He wondered how Dr. Palmer had acquired it. But knowing the reluctance he felt about discussing his own damage, Hotch didn’t ask. He held on, wishing his head would stop spinning and his eyes would stop burning and all the other unpleasant things plaguing him would stop as well. It took most of his dwindling energy, but he stayed stoic and silent. It wasn’t until the doctor palpated his left side that Hotch reacted.

The fingers probed deeply, close to the spot that would remain tender for the rest of his life…a souvenir from George Foyet. Hotch couldn’t help the grunt of pain, nor could he prevent the involuntary, instinctive contraction of his stomach muscles as they tried to protect the area.

Martin immediately let up on the pressure he’d been applying. It had been a standard examination of the spleen, but he could tell something else had reared its ugly head. _As if illness and the lingering trauma from whatever scarred this man isn’t enough._

“Son?” The doctor’s brow furrowed with concern, watching his patient cross his arms over his midriff in a defensive, little huddle.

“Okay…okay…okay…” What breath Hotch had came out in small gasps as he waited for the pain to recede.

Rossi was at the bedside immediately, kneeling as he tried to look into Hotch’s face. “Aaron? The ribs?”

“Okay…okay…okay…” He kept up his trademark chant even as he nodded to Dave’s question.

Rossi’s next words were for the doctor. “He got injured; same incident that gave him the scars. Apparently there was enough repeated damage to make the injury chronic.”

Martin took hold of Hotch’s shoulders and eased him back, encouraging the tense stomach muscles to release. He was curious about the incident Rossi referred to, but he also respected his patient’s right to privacy. He didn’t need to know the details in order to make his assessment regarding the infectious diseases invading this man. _And I’ve seen enough._ His eyes went to the aspirin and the glass of water Rossi had left on the nightstand. He inclined his head toward the small bottle.

“How many of those did he take?”

“One. He’s kind of sensitive to medication. Doesn’t take much for him to feel it.”

“Hmmmm.” Martin reached deep into the black satchel at his feet, extracting a similar bottle. “Use these instead. They’ll bring his fever down, help with the pain, and won’t upset his stomach as much.” He went back to studying Hotch’s face. “Think you could tell me everything that hurts right now, Mr. Hotchner? Give me an inventory?”

The worse Hotch felt, the less adept he was becoming at hiding his thoughts and feelings. Both older men saw him weighing the consequences of being truthful, possibly risking having Jack kept from him. Martin decided to put him out of at least a little of his misery.

“It’s alright to be honest, son. I’ve already decided you can have your boy brought in.” He met Rossi’s inquisitive glance. “But they’ll need to be separated for a few days. At least until the flu virus is past the contagious phase.” He looked back at Hotch. The smile that shone forth even through fever and pain confirmed that he’d made the right decision. _Knowing his son is here, he’ll be able to rest. Knowing he’ll need to improve before they can be in the same room…well, that’ll be added incentive to let Dave take care of him._

Feeling encouraged, Hotch snuffled his way through his list of physical grievances. Once he was done, Rossi added a few words based on Reid’s caution concerning Hotch’s ability to weather a severe cough with ribs intact. When he had the whole picture, Martin gave his patient a long, considering look. Despite his continued regard of Hotch, when he spoke, it was to Rossi.

“The ribs worry me. He needs to cough to keep his lungs clear and to help expectorate the congestion. Your friend is right: coughing could damage the ribs. But, if I tape them, the rash will be irritated once it spreads under the bandaging. So…” He sighed, watching Hotch struggle to stay alert. “…I think I _will_ tape them for now. We’ll just have to see which disease runs its course fastest. The deep cough is the flu. So is the congestion. I’ll write you a prescription for something that’ll make the coughing more productive, hopefully clear him out a little sooner.” He tilted his head, reaching one hand down to rest against Hotch’s tender left side. “We’ll just have to balance possible re-injury against the discomfort of its prevention. Make sure while he’s awake he takes a deep breath a couple times an hour. It’ll help keep pneumonia at bay. Mostly I want him to rest and drink plenty of fluids. Ginger ale’s always been my favorite for the sickbed. Food if he wants it, but don’t be alarmed if he doesn’t eat for a couple of days.

“I’ll tape him up, then be back tomorrow to check on him…” A grin flashed out, anticipating his patient’s joy in the imminent reunion. “… _and_ his son. In the meantime, darken this room. It’ll be better for his eyes. And as for you, Mr. Hotchner, I think I’ll let your son come over tomorrow. I want you to rest tonight. And I _don’t_ want you forcing yourself to stay awake, trying to look stronger than you are for his sake.” Martin placed two fingers beneath the chin, tipping the head up to make eye contact. “Understood?” _Good God, he’s almost out…and still fighting to look in control._

Hotch blinked, looking woozy. “Uh-huh.”

The doctor shook his head in combined admiration and exasperation. He reached into his bag once more for his prescription pad and a roll of tape. Rossi moved about the room pulling blinds and closing drapes.

Hotch closed his eyes and let Martin work, grateful for everything that was being done on his behalf, and comforting himself with the thought of seeing Jack. It meant his promise to his son wouldn’t be broken. Altered a little, but not broken.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Once Dr. Palmer had left, Rossi went into overdrive.

He needed to fill the prescription, coordinate with Jessica about picking up Jack, ready a room for the boy, and stock up on whatever he imagined the two, sick Hotchners would need over the next few days. In addition, he needed to notify the team and Section Chief Strauss that both he and Hotch would be out of commission for at least a few days. But uppermost in his mind was ensuring that Jack and Aaron would be kept apart until it was deemed safe for them to breathe the same air and snuggle up together the way Rossi knew they would want to.

It wasn’t until he was faced with leaving Hotch alone so he could make a trip to the pharmacy, that he paused and smiled, remembering his discussion with Reid. _I’m not alone in this. I… **we** …have family._

J.J. was the one to whom he turned first. She was a mother who had experience with the issues of childhood from a parent’s perspective. And she had a way of arrowing in on Hotch’s moods and knowing just when, just where, and exactly how he needed handling. Plus, the woman had a serenity about her that Rossi admitted he himself would find comforting under the circumstances.

 

xxxxxx

 

“I’ll be by in about half an hour.” The very tone of J.J.’s voice was soothing. Already Rossi felt more in control of the sick Hotchners situation.

J.J. had volunteered to mobilize the team.

She would pick up the prescription, filling it while shopping for the other things she thought would keep Jack entertained while confined to bed, and would make sure both boys were properly nourished and hydrated until they were well enough to enjoy the treats Garcia was whipping up.

Morgan would handle the necessary notifications at work. He was alpha enough to make Strauss think twice before bringing up any objections or initiating any conflict.

Reid was focusing his efforts on ways to keep father and son separated. And Prentiss was keeping a weather eye on him to make sure the genius didn’t get _too_ creative. She winced when she saw him pause on a screen that portrayed restraint systems involving harnesses and pulleys.

“No, Reid.”

“But…”

“No.”

The young agent had sighed with regret for the lost opportunity to recreate something from Da Vinci’s day, but he’d admitted it might be a little controversial when applied to a five-year-old child.

Rossi coordinated with Jessica concerning a time to pick up Jack before she had to leave for what turned out to be her dream vacation: a week in France, with stops in Paris, Lourdes and Provence. After that, he made sure the bedroom farthest away from Hotch’s was ready for the boy.

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

Rossi had been looking in on Hotch from time to time during the preparations. Two hours later, thanks to the team effort, everything was in place. All that remained to be done was for Reid to bring over what he considered a disappointingly _un_ creative confinement solution…an extra-tall, expanding pet gate for Jack’s bedroom doorway with a few customizations that Morgan was installing using his construction expertise. He’d assured everyone that the gate would be ready, and would stand up to even the clever fingers of a five-year-old. It would be in place tomorrow before Jack arrived.

Rossi brewed a pot of tea, took a can of the ginger ale J.J. had brought…along with plain crackers, puzzles, games and coloring books…and went to sit with his friend for a while before turning in himself.

He entered Hotch’s room quietly. Exhaustion, illness, cough syrup, and two of the buffered pills the doctor had left, had subdued the Unit Chief. But Rossi wasn’t sure if he was really asleep. He set the tray with the beverages down on the nightstand and pulled a chair up to the bedside.

If Hotch was awake, he was going to make him take a good, deep breath, per Martin’s orders. In the dimmed light, he couldn’t tell if the shadowed eyes were closed or merely slitted.

“Aaron? You awake?” Rossi reached over, intending to give the nearest shoulder a gentle caress.

As soon as he did, Hotch flinched. Moaning in what sounded to Rossi like fear more than physical discomfort, he curled himself into a ball and cringed as far away as he could get from the hand that had touched him.

“Sorry…sorry…sorry…sorry…”

Rossi drew back, puzzled. “What’re you sorry for? What’s wrong? Aaron?”

The response was faint, weak-voiced, and frightened. “Sorry…sorry…di’n mean to get sick…sorry…don’ hit me, Dad…please…sorry…sorry…”

A lump formed in Rossi’s throat, watching his friend deep in the grip of his fevered dreams.

_Oh, God. That’s what it was like for him when he was growing up._

For the next few hours Rossi sat by his friend, speaking low, soft, reassurances, hoping they would penetrate the delirium.

And being very careful not to touch him.


	7. Questions in the Night

Sitting with Hotch, Rossi didn’t expect to fall asleep. Listening to Aaron’s troubled rest was tearing his heart out for the child his friend had been. Feverish and semi-conscious, Hotch’s scattered words were interspersed with moans that could have been the man in pain, or the boy in fear. It was hard to tell.

Rossi tried talking to him. For a while he didn’t know if he was heard, but after a couple of hours, Hotch's head turned toward the sound of his voice. Encouraged, he spoke in soft, insistent tones, giving the same assurances over and over and, eventually, when it looked as though Hotch’s half-closed eyes were trained on him, he asked questions, hoping to break through the bad dreams and redirect thought patterns. He had to repeat himself a number of times, but Aaron’s whispered responses began to paint a picture of how growing up in the Hotchner household had been.

Rossi didn’t think the semi-delirious man would remember their dialogue. It was almost like talking to someone under sodium pentothal, or deep hypnosis. Then, after a while longer, he _prayed_ Hotch wouldn’t remember. He’d thought the questions were commonplace enough to preclude going off-track into nightmarish territory. Rossi began to learn that ‘nightmarish’ was the only terrain that existed in Hotch’s distant past.

“It’s alright, Aaron. No one’s going to hurt you.” He worked at keeping his voice smooth and sure; a guarantee of protection.

“N-o-o-o-o…” The strained moan said Hotch wasn’t buying it. “Please…don’t…hit…sorry…sick…”

“Aaron, Aaron, I’m here. It’s Dave. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“Sorry…sorry…sorry…sick…sorry…” Hotch’s head rocked from side to side; whether from fevered disorientation, or in negation, hoping to keep the inevitable punishment away, Rossi couldn’t tell.

 He didn’t give up. He tried questions he hoped would distract Hotch from the endless loop of abuse upon which his  mind was fixed. Questions that would direct a child toward hope and the future, rather than a dismal present.

“Aaron, Aaron. Listen to me, Aaron. When you were a child, what did you want to be when you grew up? Can you tell me that, Aaron? What did you want to be when you grew up?”

The eyelids had flickered and for a moment Rossi thought he’d succeeded. Until the answer came, whispered and hoarse, like a shameful secret the child feared to admit.

“What did you want to be when you grew up, Aaron?”

“Safe…wanna be safe…”

Rossi stared. He’d expected the usual response boys gave. They wanted to be cowboys or firemen or astronauts. They wanted to be the heroes of their own lives. Little Aaron Hotchner had more humble aspirations. He just wanted to be safe. Rossi swallowed and felt his eyes fill.

“You _are_ safe, Aaron. You’re _safe._ I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re _safe_.”

He listened to the sounds of congestion; the labored breathing and the small, hiccupping cough. And he tried again. Maybe Hotch had found refuge in school. He possessed a keen intelligence. Maybe he’d excelled as a student. Maybe his subconscious could be redirected to that as a more positive, more comfortable place for his mind to dwell.

“What did you like most about school, Aaron? What were you good at? Were you good at something in school? Aaron?” _Please let that kid have had **some** positive reinforcement **somewhere** in his life…_

Another low moan preceded Hotch’s response. “Sorry…sorry…not good ‘nough…sorry…nev’r good ‘nough…” The body curled in on itself again. “Sorry…don’ hit…Dad…please…nooooo…”

That was when Rossi gave up the gentle approach. Stronger means were needed. To still his own emotional turmoil over what he was learning about Aaron, he needed to hold him. He hoped that once he’d done so, Aaron would realize the strong arms around him were hugging, not hurting.

At the moment, this man’s agitated mind was more in need of care than any of his physical ailments.

Rossi sat on the mattress. He lifted Hotch’s upper body, cradling it against himself. He wrapped his arms around his friend’s chest, trying not to stress the spot lower down where the rib injury lay. He wasn’t surprised when the reaction was a wordless whimper of fear and an effort to struggle free. Rossi held on. Hotch was too weak to break away. After a few fruitless attempts, the shivering body lay still, helpless, waiting for punishment to judge by the small, frightened noises he was trying to muffle.

“Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhhh.” Rossi mastered his own emotions, staying strong for his friend. _God, what did that monster do to you, Aaron?_ After a little adjusting, Rossi managed to pull Hotch’s back against him. He kept his arms hugged around Hotch’s chest, crossed in front of him, holding onto his biceps. It made it easy to speak from behind, close to either of his ears. Rossi didn’t know what to say at first. How could words have any influence over such pain? Then he realized it was actually a simple matter to know what the damaged, little boy at the root of Aaron’s dreams wanted to hear. So very simple. The only thing he’d probably _never_ heard. Rossi bent his head and, in a voice that couldn’t be ignored, gave the child what he needed.

“Love you, Aaron. I love you. You’re a good boy. A _safe_ boy. I love you, son.”

Gradually, the tension in Hotch’s body eased. By the time he was quiet enough for Rossi to feel okay about releasing him, dawn had broken.

Rossi tucked him in, blotting the fever-sweat from his face and upper body. He was bone-weary, but it was worth it. Hotch had come back from his past.

This time, when Rossi reached down and patted his shoulder, the younger man turned toward the caress instead of cringing away.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

“Man, you look like hell.”

Rossi had abandoned the idea of sleep. For one thing, he was too upset about the glimpse he’d had into Hotch’s formative years. For another, he needed to pick up Jack in a couple of hours so Jessica would have plenty of time to get through airport security and make her international flight.

He’d attempted to boost his flagging energy with a shower and fresh coffee…double strength…but he was still dragging when Morgan rang his doorbell, revised pet door and toolbox in hand.

“Good morning to you, too, Derek.” Rossi didn’t return the sardonic grin of the man standing on his doormat.

Morgan brandished the toolbox and nodded at the contraption gripped under his arm. “Well, I got the blockade here. Pretty good job, if I do say so myself. I’m betting it could even keep boss-man in line, let alone his kid.”

Rossi nodded and motioned for Morgan to go past him into the foyer. When no answering caustic remark, or praise for his handiwork was forthcoming, the agent’s grin faded.

“Hey, Rossi. You okay?”

“Yeah…yeah…Rough night. That’s all.”

Morgan’s profiler’s hearing detected more. “How’s Hotch?”

Rossi yawned. “Fever broke about an hour ago. He’s asleep.” He started trudging up the stairs, a tilt of his head telling Morgan to follow. “Not making much sense. He’s one sick boy.”

Rossi never called Hotch a ‘boy.’ At least not in the presence of his team. Morgan knew Rossi had been Hotch’s mentor and trainer. It allowed him the liberty of delving beneath the drill sergeant exterior. It was no secret that Rossi liked Hotch. Immensely. Everyone knew there was a special bond between the two men. It was easy for Morgan to imagine the older man keeping a night-long vigil by the younger’s bedside.

“Rossi, you get any sleep at all?”

There was no answer. Instead Rossi led him to the room he’d prepared for Jack. “This is it.” He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing. “I’ve gotta go…” He glanced at his wristwatch. “…and get Jack in about an hour. Think you’ll be done by then?”

Morgan set his burdens down and turned to face the heavy-lidded eyes roaming over the room’s interior, doing one more check to be sure it was ready for its five-year-old tenant.

“I’ll be done. But, Rossi…you’re done _now._ No way you’re going to pick up a sick kid.” He raised his brows. “Family helps. Remember?”

Before Rossi’s sleep-deprived brain could catch on to whatever point he was making, Morgan pulled out his phone and punched in a number. “J.J.? You busy?” The flashing, white smile was a sign that the answer had been the one he’d hoped for. “Good. Rossi’s in a bind. I’m at his place, but we need someone to get Jack. And maybe someone to stay and look after him and Hotch while Rossi gets some shuteye. Can do?” He chuckled, bending to open his toolbox. “Thanks. See you.”

Morgan flipped his phone shut and pocketed it. “Everything’s set. J.J.’s getting Jack. Prentiss and Garcia are coming over with supplies, which, if I know my Baby Girl, means cookies and other assorted treats. They’ll watch over Hotch and Jack while you rest. So…” He began fitting the barrier into the doorway. “…you’re not needed, Rossi. For at least eight to ten hours.” Morgan turned his back on his host. “Goodnight, man. Sweet dreams.”

Rossi blinked. He was a little overwhelmed. It had all happened so quickly. Suddenly he wasn’t in control of every detail. And it felt good.

“Thank you, Derek. I’ll see you later.”

Rossi took one last look at Hotch. _Still restless…but better._ He went to the master suite, his haven from the world’s ills and shut the door on the sounds of Morgan-at-work. Once undressed and in bed, he fell asleep within minutes.

His last conscious thought was for the contrast between the care and consideration being demonstrated by his team, and the flood of horrors that had comprised Hotch’s childhood.

Despite Morgan’s wish, his dreams of a boy with no place to run…weren’t sweet.


	8. Team Time

J.J.’s morning was filling up rapidly.

She’d planned on a Saturday at home with Henry and Will, but Morgan’s call for help altered things a little. She might have passed the buck about picking up Jack to Garcia, Prentiss, or even Reid, but she had some lingering guilt about the snafu involving the boy’s immunizations.

With all the stress of looking after Hotch immediately following Foyet’s second and final attack, she’d made a grave error. She’d been so distracted, running so many different races…trying to help Hotch find a new home suitable for raising a child, finding a school for Jack, keeping her own domestic life on an even keel, and just plain worrying over poor Aaron’s recovery…her overworked brain had somehow melded the MMR immunization Henry had been given around _his_ first birthday with the one Haley had made sure Jack got shortly after _he_ turned one. She’d been so proud of the nontraditional school she’d found for Jack, maybe she’d been a little over eager to get him started. She’d been pleased and grateful when they were willing to take her word for the boy’s health records in light of his special circumstances.

It wasn’t really the school’s fault either. After all, the competent, young woman…an FBI agent, no less!...enrolling him said she was certain about his having had two vaccinations for measles. J.J. had assured them that once the medical records were found among Haley’s effects, the proof would be sent to the school to be entered into Jack’s permanent file.

The administrators had softened their usually strict stance on the requirement. They were blindsided and shocked by the tale of the child’s stint under federal protection, his mother’s murder, and his father’s need to recover physically and emotionally from a truly horrendous experience. Of _course_ it would take time to go through the late Mrs. Hotchner’s private papers to find the pediatrician she had engaged for her son after being relocated. Of _course_ they understood the need to give the boy a routine that would allow him to see that, despite tragedy, life moved on. And of _course_ they understood the need to do so sooner rather than later.

The school had trusted her. And Hotch had been in no shape to handle things he’d usually left for Haley anyway.

Now, J.J. felt terrible about not having followed up. The school was probably _still_ waiting for the wheels of law enforcement to sort things out…even a year-and-a-half later.Again, she’d been distracted by cases, and major changes in her personal life. _But that’s **no** excuse._ So she kissed her family goodbye, telling them she’d be back in a few hours, and drove toward Jessica Brooks’ house.

J.J.’s sense of guilt, as well as affection for Hotch, and concern at his predicament, had made her promise Morgan she’d, once again, marshal the troops. She already knew Garcia was planning on catering the Unit Chief’s recovery, so the combination tech analyst/kitchen wiz, was her first call. When Prentiss’ voice answered , J.J. smiled. If there was anyone who could gainsay her guilt, infect her with a cavalier attitude, and give her a casual shrug of the shoulders for her own shortcomings, it was Emily.

“Hola. Esta es la casa de Garcia.” The lilt in Prentiss’ Spanish delivery would make a caller think they had connected with a magnificent hacienda and had reached one of the undoubtedly numerous staff hired to see to every need and desire of the fabulous Penelope.

“Emily! Moonlighting as Garcia’s receptionist?” J.J.’s smile broadened. “Lady in Waiting? Culinary Assistant?”

Prentiss’ laughter was like a balm to J.J.’s soul. “Hey! I’m learning how to bake bread over here.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Mostly I’m watching, Garcia doesn’t like to share her kitchen.” The volume rose back up to a normal level. “Why don’t you come by? We’re gonna bring some stuff to Rossi’s for him and the sicko.”

J.J.’s sigh was expressive of her inner turmoil. “I wish. Actually, I wish I could’ve stayed with _my_ two guys, but Rossi needs help. I’m heading over to pick up Jack now. Then, I guess someone needs to keep an eye on the both of them for a while, too. So…”

“So…nothing.” Prentiss clicked over into business mode; all organization and efficiency. “You bring Jack, but I’ll play babysitter or nursemaid or whatever it is they think they need. You’ve got another family that needs you today.” Then she delivered the decisive blow. “Besides, you don’t wanna take any chances on hanging out with virus-boy too much and bringing something back with you to Will or Henry.”

“Henry’s fine for measles. We all are.”

“I meant Hotch. And flu.”

J.J. was sorely tempted. “You sure? Really?”

She heard the phone being moved about. Garcia’s voice came on with its staccato energy that always reminded J.J. of how the tech-savant typed, as well as how she clicked down the Bureau hallways in her glittering, flashing footwear.

“We’re bringing tons of deliciousness, J.J.. If the boys give us any trouble, we’ll just shove food into their mouths. Don’t worry. We may not be moms, but we can handle a Hotch-rocket when it’s out of fuel and grounded.”

J.J. deliberated for approximately six seconds.

“Thanks, guys. I promised Will I’d spend some time with him today…you know?”

The chorus of cat-calls and whistles told J.J. her friends had opted to interpret that in the lewdest manner possible. It didn’t matter. Everything was going to work out and no one would be disappointed or even inconvenienced much.

“Thanks…Really, _really_ thanks…I’ll see you there.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

It didn’t take Morgan long to install the barricade to Jack’s room. It was a tall, wire mesh that could be folded back into accordion pleats. A small locking device that attached to the doorjamb made it secure and childproof. When he was done, J.J. still hadn’t arrived with the boy. Morgan put his tools away and decided to look in on Hotch.

He’d seen Rossi going into the room at the top of the staircase before retiring to his own suite. He assumed that was where the Unit Chief had been sequestered. _Probably couldn’t make it any further, poor, puking bastard_. Still, even if he hadn’t seen Rossi go to the door, he would have known where Hotch was based on the harsh breathing and the occasional soft moan he heard as he approached with quiet steps.

Morgan pushed the door open a few inches. The room was in perpetual twilight with windows covered. He groped about for a light switch on the wall, but when he flipped it on, he found the light bulbs in all the fixtures had been loosened. The only one that came on was a bedside lamp draped with a towel to lessen its illumination.

Using his stealthiest skill, Morgan moved to Hotch’s bedside.

He looked down at his boss and shook his head in sympathy. The raspy breathing couldn’t be comfortable, but what seemed even worse was the tape wrapped around the man’s ribs and the measles rash that looked like a darker discoloration in the dim light, creeping downward and beginning to spread under the leading edge of the bandages.

Hotch’s rest was uneasy. Morgan wished he knew how to help, but he really had no idea. He placed the back of his fingers against his friend’s forehead, feeling the lingering warmth. Rossi had said the fever had broken, but it didn’t seem to have disappeared completely yet.

It always bothered Morgan to see Hotch weakened. Not just because he liked the man and wanted to spare him any pain, but because he had what almost verged on a compulsion to protect him. Watching his leader over the years, Morgan had learned Hotch was made of equal parts courage and compassion. Sometimes he tried to hide his soft heart, disguising kind acts with anonymity. But Morgan always knew that whatever surprise gesture seemed to show up just when it was needed most…a few days off…an invitation to talk…sometimes even a secret visit to a victim’s family to offer solace…was traceable to Hotch. Morgan usually found out. And it always touched him.

He pulled his hand back from the warm forehead.

_I wish I could take this from you, man. Or at least share it with you…_

The rich chiming of Rossi’s doorbell pulled Morgan away from regrets on Hotch’s behalf. Anxious to prevent the sound from disturbing anyone’s rest, he cat-footed his way out of the bedroom and sprinted down the staircase.

He opened the door to find J.J., arms full of Hotch’s son and the bag that his father had sent with the boy when he was farmed out to Jessica.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Jessica had rushed J.J. in picking up Jack. She was worried about making her flight and wanted to allow extra time in case anything unforeseen popped up during the check-in process.

With the understanding that made her such an asset as a liaison, J.J. had lost no time scooping the sick child up and belting him into the child’s seat in her car.

Jack had been dozing. He’d roused slightly and asked for his Daddy in a groggy, little voice that tugged at J.J.’s mother’s heart.

“I’m taking you to your Daddy now, Jack.” She’d instinctively brushed her lips against his forehead, testing for temperature. _A little warm, but not bad._ “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. Daddy’s not far away.”

Now she stood on Rossi’s doormat as Morgan relieved her of the shoulder bag that contained Jack’s belongings. When he reached out for the boy, J.J. turned her shoulder toward him and shook her head.

“I’ve got him, Derek. Just show me where to put him.”

Morgan cast a critical eye on Hotch’s son. “Kid’s out, but he’s doing a lot better than his Dad…that’s for sure.”

“Shhhhhh.” J.J.’s voice was hushed. “Don’t say anything about Hotch that might worry him, okay?”

Morgan bowed to the young mother’s superior knowledge in the art of handling children.

“Sorry.” His voice rose on a hopeful note. “But Rossi says his Dad is better than he was last night. Fever broke for the most part, I guess.”

J.J. nodded approval at the more positive subject matter, and followed Morgan up the stairs to the room Rossi had prepared. When they reached it at the far end of the long hallway, Morgan stood back, waiting with expectant pride for some praise at the solution he and Reid had devised to keep the Hotchners apart.

J.J. blinked.

J.J. stared.

J.J. frowned.

J.J. spoke.

“No, Derek. No.”

Morgan’s smile faded. The puffed chest sank in a trifle. He looked at his handiwork, wondering what J.J. was seeing that he wasn’t. “What?” He tried to present the contraption’s finest attributes. “You can see through it, so he won’t feel all isolated. It’s safe…no sharp edges or anything. And I guarantee it’s childproof.”

“It’s a cage, Derek.” J.J.’s voice was low. She bounced the boy in her arms slightly, keeping him soothed and silent. “I’m not putting him in a cage.”

It was Morgan’s turn to blink in disbelief. “But…”

“Take it down. Now.” J.J. turned her back and carried Jack away from any noise that dismantling the barrier might produce. “We’re going downstairs. When it’s a room for a little boy, and not a zoo installation, we’ll be back.”

Morgan watched the retreating back, stiff with feminine disapproval.

Sighing, he retrieved his toolbox. Morgan made it a priority not to get into arguments with females. He made it an ironclad rule, bordering on law, when the females were mothers.


	9. Hero

Hotch opened his eyes to watery slits, gave a weak cough, and decided he felt…really, really, _really_ bad.

He listened to the faint, sporadic whine of a power drill somewhere beyond his closed bedroom door. The sound puzzled him, but he couldn’t muster enough energy to pursue any line of thought about why such a noise was here in Rossi’s home. Truth was, he just didn’t care. There was only one thing he _did_ care about. One thing upon which it was worth expending what little reserves he had.

Jack.

He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. The darkened room was easier to tolerate, but confused him about how much time had elapsed since Dave had taken him in. Ordinarily, he’d have been able to use hunger as a gage, but he found he had no appetite at all. He turned his head, hoping to see a clock on the nightstand. There wasn’t one…but there was a pitcher of water and a glass, as well as an unopened can of ginger ale.

Hotch pushed himself up, leaning on his elbows and taking a woozy look around the room, wondering with a sick man’s illogic, why things weren’t clearer from the perspective of being a few inches higher than when lying prone.

 The only epiphany he had was that he was thirsty, and he wouldn’t mind a trip to the bathroom. At least it was a goal…something toward which to strive. And maybe, along the way, he’d encounter something Jack-ish. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. The thought of his son…somewhere out there…was enough to spur him onward.

After a valiant struggle with the bedding, Hotch attained a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. He panted with a wheezing sound that even his blunted thought processes found disturbing. So he rested, trying to catch his breath, leaning forward and congratulating himself on the small victory of escaping from the sheets and blanket that had seemed bent on holding him hostage. Realizing he needed to fuel the body that was letting him down if he intended to search for his son, Hotch stared at the liquid refreshments displayed on the nightstand. But…

He couldn’t seem to keep his mind on one track. Things were dispersing and wavering and flowing around and away from him. He had trouble focusing, but at the center of the confused maelstrom was an image of…Jack.

Hotch gave up any thoughts of personal comfort in favor of finding his son. He launched himself off the bed and, using convenient pieces of furniture as well as walls, he made his way to the door.

If the child was out there, he would find him.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan sighed deeply several times during the deconstruction of the wire mesh barrier.

It would have been a secure, safe way to contain Jack and keep the Hotchners apart. He was sure, given the first opportunity, the sick boy and his father would abandon all reason, seek each other out, and happily nuzzle until all their viruses and germs were transferred, one to the other. He didn’t understand why J.J., as a mother, didn’t see that _any_ means that prevented such an exchange was laudatory and should be embraced wholeheartedly. But she didn’t. And she wasn’t even open to debate.

Morgan sighed again and reverse-drilled the screws out of Rossi’s expensive, polished doorjamb, rendering the barrier…useless. He was deep in his own thoughts when he heard a shuffling, dragging sound approaching. Looking up, he saw a Hotch who was definitely not at his best, wandering down the hall.

“Whoa…whoa…whoa…whoa…whoa…where do you think you’re goin’, boss-man?”

Hotch blinked at his co-worker, bracing himself against the wall, completely unaware of how much he was swaying and how alarming he looked.

For his part, Morgan saw a man in his boxers, with his ribs bound, a rash rampaging down his sides, and a look on his face that was akin to that of a lost child. A lost, _determined_ child. It was a sad, tattered remnant of the man’s wolf-eyed scowl.

“Ho-o-o-o-tch? What’re you doing?”

Hotch gripped the wall as best he could, raising his chin to address the challenge he imagined in Morgan’s voice. He stated his two goals, punctuating them with a coughing fit. “Jack…Bathroom.”

Morgan set down his tools and looked his boss up and down. He took in the unfocused, defiant expression on Hotch’s face and his own morphed into pure concern. “Ahhh, man. C’mere.”

Without waiting for any response other than the rasping, panting, hacking of a half-breath-half-cough, he stepped up to Hotch and reached out to him. But touching the sick, measle-ridden man was a bit more complicated than Morgan had thought. He didn’t want to make contact with the rash. The only other options were the bandages over his ribs, or his boxers.

Morgan chose the former. Knowing the tender spot Hotch sported on his left side, he used extra care wrapping his fingers around the taped area. Turning his boss around, he moved him back toward his bedroom, speaking in the most persuasive tones he could muster.

“You’re forgettin’, man. This is Rossi’s crib. Just about every bedroom has its own bath.”

Morgan was surprised in a bad way at how easy it was to control Hotch. _This guy’s as weak as a kitten. Shouldn’t be wandering around without someone to catch him if he passes out._ A vagrant, mischievous thought flitted through his mind. _Maybe that barricade might still come in handy._ But when he heard J.J.’s soft, steady steps ascending the staircase, he wisely shelved the idea.

 

xxxxxxx

 

J.J. had stayed downstairs with Jack, rocking him and crooning comforting words about his Daddy. When she heard the faint sounds of Morgan’s drilling stop, she thought it might be time to bring Jack back up. And _this_ time she hoped to find a room meant for human occupation…not a space geared toward containment of a wild animal.

Carrying Jack and his bag of possessions, she kept her eyes lowered, careful not to trip on Rossi’s sweeping, marble stairs. She continued the soothing chatter, reassuring the boy that his Daddy needed rest, but they’d see each other soon. So it wasn’t until she’d reached the landing and heard Morgan’s “Uh-oh,” that she realized it might have been a better idea to wait until he’d come down to tell her the hated barricade was gone and it was safe to return.

J.J. raised her eyes and saw a sick, disheveled, half-naked Hotch squinting reddened eyes at her. The cowlicks that he battled daily, trying to maintain a neat, professional appearance, had won. The hairs on his head stood out in spiky abandon, flaunting their disobedience; triumphant at last.

His skin was patchy with rash. The binding around his midsection made her think he’d injured himself in some way. She wanted to tell Morgan to be careful grabbing him around the ribs. The way his powerful hands were gripping Hotch looked risky. But she also wanted Morgan to get Hotch out of the way before Jack roused enough to realize his Daddy was mere steps away.

It was already too late to sneak past, or to retreat the way she’d come.

As unsteady as he was, Hotch had seen his son. He resisted Morgan’s attempts to get him through the doorway of his room, clinging to the jamb with a desperate, tenacious hold. He flattened his body against the wood as Morgan tugged at his waist, trying to dislodge him and push him deeper into the darkened bedroom.

“Jack?” As gravelly as the single word was that rasped out of him, it was enough. Hotch’s son recognized the beloved voice. J.J. felt the sleepy, heavy head on her shoulder lift.

“Daddy?”

Morgan kept trying to strike a balance between manhandling Hotch and avoiding doing him harm. It wasn’t going very well. The man was clinging to the doorjamb like a human suction cup.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Rossi had managed to ignore the sounds of Morgan plying his tools. Being exhausted helped. He’d drifted off for a couple of hours, but now whatever was going on out in the hallway was too much.

Rossi awoke to what was either the muted sounds of a struggle, or a small herd of heavy-footed hippos frolicking on the landing. When Mudgie raised his head from his position at the foot of the bed, tilted it to one side and gave an inquisitive whine, Rossi decided further efforts to sleep would be useless. He emerged from beneath the covers, slipping on a robe as he went to the door.

Mudgie, seeing that appropriate steps were being taken, gave one approving bark and nestled down, intent on resuming his nap.

Rossi shook his head, grinning ruefully as the dog closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. _Don’t mind me, Mudge. I’ll just go deal with the intruders. You get on with your beauty sleep._

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Oh, for Pete’s sake…” Rossi cinched his robe tighter and went to help Morgan pry Hotch off of the woodwork.

He brushed past the two men, retrieving a blanket from the bed. Returning, Rossi edged Morgan aside, draping the blanket over Hotch’s bare shoulders.

“You don’t need to force him, Morgan. He’s sick. And judging by how he was last night, he’s probably not thinking clearly. The harder you try to make him do something, the more he’ll resist, just because…well…that’s Hotch.” Rossi gently rubbed the trembling body still plastered against the doorjamb through the thickness of the blanket, encouraging it to relax.

He glanced up at J.J., holding Jack and trying to keep her distance. The child was watching the proceedings through heavy, listless eyes. But deep within them, Rossi fancied he could see a little glow of warmth. Daddy had been found. _Poor kid’s sick, too. Probably doesn’t even realize his Daddy’s in worse shape than he is._

“Hi, Jack.” Rossi tried to sound as though seeing one’s father half-naked and hugging a wall was an everyday occurrence. Nothing to be concerned about. “Your Daddy picked up the same kind of sick you did, kiddo! He’s gonna be fine, but for right now, do you think you can go with Ms. Jareau and let Daddy get some rest?”

Jack nodded. A huge yawn indicated he wouldn’t mind another nap himself.

When Rossi had mentioned Jack’s name, Hotch looked up. Resisting Morgan had taken all his concentration. At the height of their struggle, he’d squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head, pressing into the doorjamb with every dwindling ounce of strength. Now he felt Rossi’s gentler touch and risked loosening his hold. He trained a watery eye on his son and managed to make a sickly smile still look utterly blissful.

“Hey, Buddy…”

“Daddy.” Jack gave a sigh of contentment, snuggling deeper into J.J.’s shoulder while still keeping his gaze fixed on his fast-fading father. As J.J. edged past the men and continued down the hall to the room farthest away, the two Hotchners maintained eye contact, breaking only when J.J. turned the corner and disappeared with her young charge.

Jack had found his hero. And the hero had found his treasure.

Once again, all was well with the world.

 


	10. Differing Standards

Once J.J. had tucked Jack in and made sure he was sleeping as comfortably as he could, she headed back toward the room where Hotch had made his stand, trying to meld himself to the doorjamb.

She looked through the doorway, but didn’t enter. As concerned as she was about the Hotchners, she was still cognizant of the fact that she could easily bring something unpleasant home to her own family. She knew they were all up to date on flu and measles shots, but having seen firsthand how little Jack Hotchner was feeling, she worried anyway. As it was, she planned on putting her clothes in the washer and showering before distributing hugs to Will and Henry.

So, despite her natural inclination to help, J.J. hovered at the entrance to Hotch’s room, observing, but not participating.

Hotch and Rossi were nowhere in sight. Morgan was changing the sheets on the bed, tucking in corners with military precision. He glanced up at J.J. and shook his head.

“You saw that, didn’t you? How those two are?” She knew he was referencing Hotch and Jack. “The second they’re left on their own, they’ll be all up in each other’s business.” He shot her a look rife with the pain of having been judged unfairly. “That…uh,… _containment device_ …would’ve kept them nice and safe and separate.”

J.J. bristled. “A _cage_ is **_not_** a humane way to treat a child, Morgan. _Ever._ We’ll find another way; one that won’t make every mother on the planet want to kill whoever came up with the idea.”

Morgan mumbled something under his breath about having used a similar method before with no ill effects. J.J. felt the small hairs on the back of her neck rise.

“Derek, tell me you did _not_ put a child in a cage just to keep him out of the way.” Her voice went low, outraged.

“It worked fine.”

J.J. spoke through gritted teeth, debating entering the darkened room, the den of sickness, just so she could smack some sense into her co-worker. “Who…did…you…put…in…a… _cage_...Derek…. _Who?_ ”

Morgan concentrated on bundling up the sweat-soaked sheets he’d removed from Hotch’s bed. When he answered, it was with his back turned and his head down. J.J. didn’t quite catch it.

“ ** _WHO??_** ”

“Clooney.”

“Your _dog?_ You equate Hotch’s son with your _dog?_ ”

Morgan dropped the bundled bedding, finally straightening, and looked at her, defiance in every line of his body. “Clooney’s family. And I’d never do anything to hurt him.”

“Cloo…?” J.J. ran a hand through her hair, unable to find words for an argument that, in her opinion, had just jumped the tracks and thundered off into the land of the absurd. She closed her eyes and counted to three. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at Morgan, who, regardless of trying to defend his position, really did want J.J.’s approval and had already decided that maybe he should revisit the advisability of using caging…maybe even in Clooney’s case. Maybe.

“Where’s Hotch? How’s he doing really?” J.J. decided to pursue a different, less emotionally-charged subject.

The tension eased out of Morgan’s shoulders now that he was on tamer conversational ground, and the expression in J.J.’s eyes wasn’t so accusatory. He shrugged, nodding toward one of the closed doors on the far side of the room.

“Rossi took him to the bathroom. Cleaning him up a little, I guess.” Morgan toed the bundle of used sheets he’d dropped on the floor. “Guy got pretty sweaty last night.” The look he turned on J.J. was filled with concern. “Delirious, too, Rossi says.”

“He’s better now.” It was second nature for J.J. to offer compassionate reassurance when faced with another’s worries. “He wouldn’t have been able to hang on to that wall the way he just did, if he wasn’t better.”

“Nah…When it comes to Jack, that man’ll dig so deep he’ll put himself six feet under.” Morgan sighed. “He’s really sick. Weak, too.”

Before they could go into any further analysis of their leader’s condition, the bathroom door opened and Rossi escorted a damp-looking Hotch back to the bed. The elder agent gave his co-workers a weary look as he eased Hotch down onto the edge of the mattress.

The Unit Chief slumped forward as far as the binding around his ribs would allow. He looked glazed and wobbly. Rossi poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand, shook out two of the buffered pills the doctor had provided, and knelt in front of the dejected-looking man.

“Aaron? Aaron, look at me.” The eyes rose, but focus was debatable. “Two things and then you can rest, okay?” Focus was no longer debatable; it just…wasn’t. “Take these.” He extended his hand, palm upwards, pills displayed.

Hotch’s head tilted down, nose pointed at whatever Rossi was referring to as ‘these.’ He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to make the world’s details clearer. When he squinted at the pills again, he swayed where he sat.

“Oh, man.” Morgan rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head at how far away from ‘well’ his boss was.

“C’mon, Aaron. Two little pills and you’re halfway done.”

“He’s ‘done,’ alright…” Morgan heaved a sigh.

Hotch bleared up at his critical colleague. In a last act of willful defiance, he rallied enough to grope the pills out of Rossi’s palm. He tossed them into his mouth, almost losing his balance in the process. Rossi steadied him, a hand gripping his shoulder. Hotch accepted the glass of water and swallowed his medicine.

“Drink it all down, Aaron…you can do it…” Rossi was acutely aware of how much Hotch had sweated and how little intake of liquids he’d had. “Atta boy…”

He returned the now empty glass to the nightstand. Hotch started to lean to one side, preparatory to lying down, but Rossi arrested the movement, still controlling his friend with one hand on his shoulder.

“Not yet…not yet…One more thing, Aaron.” Rossi rested fingertips lightly against Hotch’s bandaged midriff. “You need to take a couple of breaths. As deep as you can.”

He couldn’t tell if he was making himself understood. When the sick man gave him what he interpreted as a blank look, Rossi decided a demonstration was in order. Still on one knee, the better to make eye contact with Hotch, the older agent stretched his torso upward, filling his lungs to capacity. The image of an Italian opera singer readying himself to deliver a full-throated aria passed through his mind.

“D-e-e-e-e-p breath, Aaron. C’mon…d-e-e-e-e-p breath.”

Seeing the quizzical expression on Hotch’s face, Morgan joined in, contributing his own depiction of deep breathing to the effort.

“Like this, Hotch…” Morgan inhaled, letting his chest enlarge to an impressive girth.

From the doorway, J.J. couldn’t help filling her own lungs in sympathetic support of her co-workers’ exertions, hands making graceful, expanding motions in accompaniment.

Still swaying slightly, Hotch turned irritated eyes from Rossi to Morgan to J.J.. He brought his gaze back to the man kneeling before him, still illustrating the concept of maximum inhalation.

All three froze at the Unit Chief’s hoarse voice.

“Jeez, guys. ‘M sick, not stupid. Know how t’ breathe.”

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Hotch’s exertion from when he’d resisted Morgan, and the several deep breaths he’d finally taken under Rossi’s supervision, drained what little reserves he’d had. Sleep claimed him moments after his head hit the pillow.

Rossi picked up the bundle of bedding destined for the laundry. Side by side, he and Morgan observed their unconscious leader. When he rubbed absently at his side, Rossi stepped forward, taking the hand and pressing it down with a firm touch. He glanced at Morgan.

“Need to keep him from scratching that rash.”

Morgan grunted assent, adding his own concern. “Need to keep him away from Jack, too.”

“Thought you and Reid had that solved.” Rossi frowned. “Isn’t that why you were vandalizing my woodwork?”

From the doorway, J.J. cleared her throat. It was loud, attention-getting.

“You don’t cage a child to keep him under control, Rossi. You should know that. Just keep the doors to both boys’ rooms closed and we’ll keep an eye on them.”

She relented when she saw the weary, sleep-deprived look the older man gave her. “Get some rest, Rossi. I’ll make sure Hotch and Jack stay away from each other. Emily and Garcia are on their way. They’ll take over when I leave.”

Rossi yawned hugely. “Maybe you’re right, J.J. I just thought it was more important to keep them apart, and I didn’t see how I’d be able to make sure of that by myself.”

“You’re not by yourself. We’re here.”

Rossi gave his team members a warm smile. “Thanks. Both of you… _All_ of you.”

He walked back out into the hall and looked toward the far end where the wire mesh barrier had been rolled into a rough cylinder and propped against the wall. He shook his head. Glancing at Morgan, he spoke in a low whisper.

“Woulda worked on Mudge…”

“I _know_!” Morgan’s tone said he still felt grievously misunderstood.

J.J. watched the two men walk away; Rossi to his bed, Morgan to clear away the offending barrier and his tools. She could imagine the whispered conversation concerning the illogic of women when it came to acceptable standards of childcare.

She decided to keep watch until the barrier was safely downstairs and stowed in Morgan’s truck.

Just in case.


	11. Enter the Bat-Cam

Once Morgan had tidied away the mess he’d made, he seemed reluctant to leave.

J.J. tried to set his mind at ease.

“All three guys are asleep. Nothing’s gonna happen, Derek.” When he glanced upstairs, then looked her up and down, J.J. knew exactly what he was thinking. “And if any one of them gets frisky or adventurous, don’t think I can’t handle it.” She softened her words with a smile. “After all, I was taught by the best.”

Morgan relented, mirroring this woman’s gentle smile that could make the harshest words seem affectionate.

“And I won’t be alone for long. Garcia and Prentiss are heading over with food. Soon.”

Morgan nodded, turning his worries from present to future. “Okay for now. But Hotch and Jack are gonna find a way to reach each other. How’ll you keep that from happening? Huh?”

“By treating them _both_ like babies.” She chuckled at the furrowed brow that spoke of skepticism for her method, and suspicion for the apparent fount of knowledge that she’d acquired since attaining parenthood. “Just go home, Derek. I’ll….”

“…call me if you need me?” He finished the sentence for her, both of them knowing it was the assurance he wanted to hear before he could leave.

“Promise.”

He nodded, turning toward the ornate, front door of Rossi’s mansion.

“And Derek?” He looked back. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Morgan frowned, unable to find anything worthy of gratitude in his recent behavior. _I erected a contraption that struck horror into the depths of her soul, and I wrestled a sick man by grabbing him around the weakest part of his body, when all it took to control him was a blanket and a hug._

“For caring enough to be here.” J.J. beamed that sunlit smile that made Morgan want to put a cage around _her_ to keep her safe and unchanged. She was too special to lose to danger, or to the passage of time. And if she couldn’t always make everything alright, she _did_ make everything easier to bear.

“You’re welcome, J.J.”

Despite accomplishing nothing, Morgan left with a smile.

He would never tell, but when he got home, he pulled Clooney onto his lap and had a long, therapeutic discussion with him about the debatable merit of cages.

Lots of biscuits were involved, much to Clooney’s approval.

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

Within minutes of Morgan’s departure, J.J.’s phone chimed, announcing Prentiss as the caller.

“Hi, Em. Everything okay?”

The answering voice wavered a little. “Um…yeah…yeah, everything’s fine.”

J.J.’s read-between-the-lines antennae went up, her own voice taking on an anxious tone. “What’s wrong. C’mon…spill it.”

“No..no..nothing. It’s just…” Prentiss descended to a whisper. “Garcia made a _lot_ of food. I mean a _LOT_ …ya know?” She returned to normal volume, signaling the arrival of Chef Penelope. “And we’ll be there in about half an hour. As soon as we finish, uh, loading the _cars_.”

“Cars? As in plural? More than one?”

“Yeah. _Cars_.” The whisper returned. “It’s a _lot_ of food!”

J.J. stifled a chuckle. Garcia never did anything in a small way. Going overboard, whether in the sartorial or the culinary arena, was just part of her nature. The excess applied to her heart as well. Whom Garcia loved, Garcia overwhelmed. And she would always love the stern-looking leader who not only overlooked her eccentricities, but secretly admired them.

Hotch and Jack were about to be engulfed in Penelope’s avalanche of care. J.J. thoroughly approved. The Unit Chief’s normally Spartan existence could use a little excess a-la Garcia.

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing Rossi has that over-sized fridge and freezer, then. But, Emily, can one of you make a stop on the way and pick a couple things up?”

“Sure. Wha’d’ya need?”

“Just some things from Babies“R”Us.” J.J. could hear question marks filling up the silence on the other end of the line. “Let me explain…”

 

xxxxxx

 

J.J. stayed around long enough to help unload the dizzying array of food, and to make sure Prentiss and Garcia knew the importance of keeping Jack and Hotch separated. She decided to let Garcia assemble the baby monitors she’d had them pick up, along with applying the decorations and stickers that would make using them almost more fun for Jack than snuggling into his Daddy’s warm, but rash-covered chest.

“These were kinda pricey.” Prentiss was studying the receipt she’d fished out of the bottom of the store’s brightly-colored plastic bag.

“They’re worth it.” J.J. was admiring the state-of-the-art device. “Actually, I think I’ll keep one when we’re done with them here. Henry might have avoided measles, but he’s bound to pick up something along the way. Kids always do.”

Garcia was in her element. She ignored the instruction booklet, letting her savant-sense for all things digital take over. Once the small, color monitors were connected to the remote unit that functioned as a combination moveable camera and microphone, she played with the control buttons edging one monitor. The camera panned around, swiveling on command to pick up each of her colleagues with hi-def precision.

“This is way cool, Sunshine.” The camera moved, focusing on the second bag of purchases. “And now for the _really_ fun part!” Reaching over, she spilled out a glittering, rainbow pile of craft supplies.

J.J. smiled at Penelope’s enthusiasm. “Actually, I was thinking, if Jack feels up to it, you guys could do the decorating part together?”

“Oh…uh…yeah…sure…sure...” Garcia made an effort to curb her desire to start altering the plain, white plastic casings _now_.

Prentiss was trying out the second monitor set, a considering look on her face. “I might want one of these, too. Be kinda fun to watch Sergio online.” She roused herself from thoughts of feline surveillance. “So we put a camera in Hotch’s room and give Jack the monitor to control it, so he can see and talk to his Dad, and do the same with the other so Hotch can talk to Jack and keep an eye on him?”

J.J. nodded. “Yup. And then, once you decorate them…I was thinking the Batman stickers and stuff would be good…you make it a game. Like, tell Jack his Daddy’s in the Bat Cave and he has to stay away or his true identity will be discovered…you know…that kind of stuff.”

Deprived of instant gratification when it came to embellishing the monitors, Garcia’s eyes lit up again at the prospect of inventing a make-believe story, of playing pretend with Jack, casting his father in the role of undercover superhero. J.J. smiled at her friend’s look of anticipation, deciding it was time to make her exit.

“If you guys have any questions, just phone. Derek’s on call, too, if you need any muscle.”

J.J. wasn’t sure, but she thought Garcia’s expression brightened even more, turning a trifle lustful at the reference to Morgan’s most abundant, natural resource.

 

xxxxxxx

 

A few hours later, after Jack had demonstrated enough appetite to put a dent in a bowl of Garcia’s signature chicken soup, the project of making a Batman monitor set, accompanied by imaginative tales of Hotch as the Dark Knight, perked the sick child up considerably.

With the added incentive of being able to watch Daddy resting in his secret location somewhere within the environs of Gotham City, once the magical decorating job was done, Jack had as nearly perfect a time as a five-year-old could, considering the circumstances.

Eventually, tired from the excitement of Garcia’s company, the boy fought to keep his eyes open. He wanted the Bat-cam deployed so he could see Daddy before taking a nap. Prentiss volunteered to take on the mission; a move Jack thoroughly approved, since the black clothing she favored made him think of her as a spy…capable of doing secretive things and accomplishing dangerous tasks.

Prentiss took the cosmetically altered camera unit, careful not to disturb Jack’s and Garcia’s handiwork. With exaggerated stealth that made the sick child giggle, she slunk out of the room and into the hallway. The camera was on, sending images of her progress back to the monitor in Jack’s possession. She continued the act of spy-on-a-mission as she traveled the distance to Hotch’s door.

 

xxxxxx

 

Rested and feeling much improved, Rossi decided it was time to check on his houseguests. He could hear the faint sounds of furtive giggling from the direction of Jack’s room, which meant the boy’s bedroom door must be open. He fervently hoped that Hotch hadn’t managed to find his way to his son.

Opening his own door, Rossi poked his head out just in time to see Prentiss executing some sort of odd, crouching walk, arm extended, palm up, holding an object that defied interpretation. From where Rossi stood, all he could tell was that it was mostly black and seemed to have ears. And Prentiss was playing to it. She put her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture right before turning the knob on Hotch’s door and disappearing into his room.

Blinking, Rossi decided maybe he’d take a shower before finding out what kind of fanciful charade had invaded his home.

He closed his own door very quietly, retreating to the safety and relative sanity of the master bath.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch knew he was sick. There was no denying it; no disguising it. He expected to feel bad.

But he didn’t expect to hallucinate.

There was no other way he could explain the thing that greeted his watery, irritated eyes as he lifted his head toward the soft, whirring sound coming from the nightstand.

There was something there. It was black and sinister and it had ears; two pointed things that stood upright. In the darkened room, it still managed to pick up enough light to flash and glitter as it… _moved?_... When it swiveled toward him, clearly fastening its attention on him, Hotch’s first impulse was to make it go away. But he was too weak to take any action.

He tried to stare it down. But illness had robbed him of the power behind his glare.

The thing perched there. Whirring at him. Watching him.

Hotch groaned and buried his face in the pillow.

Maybe if he ignored it, it would get bored and go away on its own…

Or maybe if it hung around long enough, it would catch measles and be miserable…

_Serve it right…_

Hotch drifted off, dreaming of engaging in his own, private, germ warfare with The Thing On The Nightstand.

 


	12. Gustatory Gifts

Rossi lingered in his suite. Whatever madness was taking place in the hallway seemed benevolent enough. He didn’t think Prentiss would have been creeping so extravagantly into Hotch’s room if the man had already migrated over to his son.

Of course, he had to admit he couldn’t think of _any_ reason for what he’d glimpsed.He still didn’t know what the eared thing in her hand had been. But there would be time enough to find out what he’d missed after doing a quick check on the Hotchners, and making some coffee.

_Best to leave it alone. Until someone screams. Or a smoke alarm goes off. Or sirens converge on us._

It was late afternoon. He felt his internal clock was in need of adjustment, and the only way he could think to accomplish that was caffeine. Showered and dressed, Rossi opened his door with extreme caution. Nothing untoward was in the hall.

He went to Jack’s room first. Peeking inside, he could see the boy’s form under the covers, sleeping. He crept closer. What might be the twin to the thing with ears that Prentiss had been carrying, was by the bedside. Rossi frowned, leaning in for a closer inspection. When he realized what it was, he smiled, sensing J.J.’s maternal touch. When he found Jack clutching a monitor with a live, if murky, image of his father in his darkened room, the smile spread to a grin. Suddenly the Batman décor made sense. And if he could feel J.J.’s touch in the bones of the setup, the ornamentation screamed Garcia.

Rossi was sure he’d find the other monitor in Hotch’s possession. It made him feel better about being able to circumvent any premature reunion of father and son. But when he saw the image on Jack’s monitor writhe, kicking free of a blanket, and when a soft moan came over the speaker, he decided viewing and listening privileges would be less than twenty-four seven. He didn’t want Jack upset if Hotch descended into delirium again. He disengaged the monitor from the boy’s grip and switched it off, careful not to dislodge the decorations depicting a fierce and rampaging Bat-hero. He propped the small screen against the eared camera/microphone, slipping a stuffed tiger under Jack’s arm in its place.

_So far, so good. Next stop, Hotch. Then, coffee._

Halfway down the hall, Rossi’s phone rang. When he read the caller ID, he flipped it open, thinking that some people were blessed with naturally good timing.

“Hey, Marty. How’s it going?”

The welcome voice of Dr. Palmer came back at him. “Hey, yourself. I’m good. How’s our patient? Resting? Itching? Behaving?”

Rossi halted out of earshot of either Hotchner’s room. What had begun as a chuckle, faded into a sigh as he recalled the previous night, and the portrait of Hotch’s childhood that had emerged.

“I stayed up with him. He had a rough time of it.” The doctor could hear the concern in his friend’s voice. “He hasn’t eaten anything. I got him to drink a little, but not enough. The fever seems to have broken, though…for the most part…I think.”

“And his son? Is he there, too?”

“Got here this morning. Had some trouble keeping them apart at first, but…” Rossi’s lips quirked upward at the lingering bat-images in his mind. “…but I think that issue’s been resolved for the moment.”

“Good. How ‘bout I drop by in a little bit? Take a look at them. That work for you?”

Rossi’s tone conveyed gratitude and relief. “I _really_ appreciate your help, Marty. Really.”

The friendly, jovial voice became somber. “I owe you, Dave.”

“No, you don’t. Not this long afterwards.”

There was a pause, during which Rossi heard his friend swallow and take a breath.

“I will always owe you. And so will the thousands of people I’ve helped over the years. All those people I wouldn’t have been able to help, if you hadn’t…”  Another pause told Rossi the doctor was tamping down emotion, staying calm and serene as a physician should. When he continued, he’d regained control “I will _always_ owe you, Dave. But it doesn’t feel like an obligation. It feels like a privilege….And I’m not about to give up my right to owe you. Got it?”

Rossi didn’t have words for the enormity of what he was hearing. So he settled for something basic, straight from his heart.

“Thank you, Marty. For helping my friend. For _being_ my friend.”

“See you soon, you old dog.” The lightness had returned to the doctor’s voice. The connection ended.

Rossi doubted they’d ever revisit the subject of debt again. There was simply no reason.

No more needed to be said.

 

xxxxxx

 

Rossi entered Hotch’s room with care, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer illumination.

He couldn’t help feeling worry give birth to a butterfly or two in his stomach. Compared to his son, Aaron’s rest was troubled. Rossi had to remind himself that Jack was further along in the disease’s course. And children had an easier time of it anyway. And Hotch had been hit with a double whammy: flu, too.

Still, when he listened to the small moaning sounds and watched the restless movements, Rossi was glad that someone with medical expertise was on the way. At least he wasn’t sweating as much as he had the previous night. But his liquid intake wasn’t sufficient to stave off dehydration.

Rossi moved closer and saw the Bat-cam aimed at Hotch. He also saw a second monitor propped against the water pitcher. A slumbering Jack was plainly visible in his more brightly lit room. He smiled at the placement. All Hotch had to do was glance toward the nightstand and it would be the first thing he’d see.

_Probably the best medicine of all._

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

Having checked on his guests, Rossi entered his spacious kitchen in search of coffee, only to find Prentiss pouring kibble into a bowl and having a conversation with Mudgie about the etiquette he would need to follow, if… “And it’s a _big_ ‘if’, Mudge.”…he was allowed to visit Jack.

From what Rossi heard, ‘lickies’ and ‘jumpies’ would be frowned upon, possibly resulting in banishment. The look the dog gave the agent preparing his dinner was compassionate and wise; the large, brown, canine eyes signaling subservient cooperation.

“Don’t believe him, Emily.” Rossi made his way to the coffee maker, ruffling the dog’s ears in passing. “He’s a kibble junkie, and he’ll agree to anything for a cup of the stuff. Isn’t that right, Mudge?”

The dog gave his master a tragic look, full of the pathos of being misunderstood. Then, tail wagging, he attacked the bowl of food, accompanied by loud crunching that gave weight to Rossi’s accusation.

“See what I mean?”

Prentiss sighed for the duplicity of man’s best friend before turning her attention to her co-worker. “How’re you guys doing? J.J. said you were up with Hotch all night.”

“I’m fine.” Rossi poured a cup of coffee. “I wanna thank all of you for helping out.”

“No problem.” Prentiss bit her lip, hoping Rossi would have the opportunity to open the refrigerator. Garcia had left once Jack had dozed off. She’d accomplished her task of supplying enough provisions to stave off starvation for several weeks. Once the fun part of the visit was over…the story-telling and crafts session with Jack…she’d been happy to let Prentiss take over.

Now, Emily was waiting for…

Rossi brought his steaming cup to the huge, stainless steel, double-door  refrigerator. One of the small indulgences he allowed himself was using a dash of real cream in his coffee when he was at home.

Emily lifted her chin in anticipation…

“I won’t lie, I’m a little worried about Hotch.” Rossi looked over his shoulder at his colleague, speaking as he opened the steel door.

Emily’s spine straightened in anticipation…

“But an old friend, a doctor is coming over…”

Rossi stopped. His hand, groping into the cool interior of his commercial grade, luxury appliance, for the small carton of cream in its customary place on the middle shelf, had hit a wall. A solid wall. Hard.

He withdrew his bruised knuckles, opening the door to its widest…

…and stood before the landscape of food with a look of disbelieving awe. Floor to Ceiling. Wall to wall. Like building blocks. In every color of the rainbow. Some showing labels in foiled, neon colors that shouted: STEW! SOUP! PIE! ENTRÉE! DESSERT! BREAKFAST! SNACK! THREE MIN. IN MICROWAVE! PASTA!...

It was a gustatory Wall of China. A gastronomic Great Pyramid. An epicurean Stonehenge.

Rossi stepped back, the better to take in the entire array towering before him. Culinary hobbyist that he was, priding himself on his authentic recreations of the cuisine of his Italian ancestors…

…David Rossi was humbled.

 

 


	13. Housecall

Rossi was still in shock, standing before the edible monument, courtesy of Garcia, when Prentiss delivered the _coup de grace_.

“Uh, Rossi?...Rossi!”

“Huh?” He realized his jaw was hanging and his head was shaking in tiny, uncomprehending increments. He suddenly understood Hotch’s occasional retreat into the “I’m okay” mantra. Sometimes a guy just needed a moment to gather himself. But he was a hardened, tough, professional; a minion of an elite government organization. Penelope Garcia and her mountainous offerings would _not_ bring him to his knees. He closed his mouth and held himself steady.

Then he noticed Prentiss was standing with an oversized sheet of paper extended toward him.

It had some sort of diagram on it.

He reached a tentative hand out to accept it. “What’s this?”

She was struggling to keep a straight face. “Kind of a map. Garcia asked Reid if he remembered seeing what make and model your refrigerator was.” She was beginning to lose the battle to maintain a solemn expression. “Of course he did. So she figured out the interior dimensions and…well…” She lost the battle; the grin erupted in full force. “…so she mapped out how much she could pack in there. This’ll tell you what you’ve got and how deep you have to dig to get to it.”

Rossi accepted the diagram, tearing his eyes away from the wall of cuisine before him. He could feel his head beginning to make those little, shaking motions again…in denial of the evidence he held. The meticulously executed, computer generated rendering showed a layered, three dimensional breakdown of the fridge’s contents. He studied it for a moment, then looked up at Prentiss.

“Three deep. She went three deep. They’re stacked three deep.” The arm holding the key to finding a way through Garcia’s Maze of Meals dropped. “How…how…”

Prentiss stepped to Rossi’s side, joining him in paying awed tribute to the monolithic testament to Garcia’s cooking-savvy. Her voice was appropriately reverent.

“I know, I know…. I went over to help her out when she said she was going to ‘whip up a little comfort food for you and Boss-man.’” Unconsciously, Emily joined Rossi in the small, disbelieving head-shake. “When I got there, it was too late. She was already too far gone.” A note of admiration crept in. “You should see her, Rossi. In that tiny, little kitchen. Everything was so… _orchestrated_ … _choreographed_ …There was no room for an assistant.” Prentiss almost sounded regretful. “All I could do was watch. But…it was too late to intervene.”

Rossi responded the only way he could.

“Wow. Just… _wow_ …”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Prentiss left after Rossi had recovered enough to discover his small carton of cream wedged into one of the shelves backing the refrigerator door.

She clued him in on the Batman role playing that went hand-in-Bat-glove with the monitor situation, and, assuring him that the team was at his disposal and only a phone call away, she left him sipping his coffee and poring over the food map Garcia had left.

She didn’t have the heart to tell him that if he flipped the paper over, he’d find a similar key to the contents of his stand-alone freezer unit. As it was, Mudgie had polished off his bowl of kibble and was casting hopeful looks at the bank of containers lining one countertop. The aroma of cookies; sugar, oatmeal, peanut butter, and chocolate chip, apparent to his canine olfactory glands.

Rossi was in the process of realizing that Garcia had arranged her offerings, ranking them from most to least perishable, with those that should be consumed first closest to the front, when the doorbell chimed. Abandoning his coffee and giving Mudgie a stern look filled with strictures against any ‘accidental’ cookie encounters, he went to answer the door.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Marty.”

Rossi ushered his friend in with a warm smile. “Thanks again for coming. And on a Saturday. I thought all you medical types reserved your weekends exclusively for the golf course.”

Dr. Palmer grinned. “A vicious rumor started by country club administrators when we began advising our patients to incorporate resistance training twice a week in lieu of a steady diet of golf.” He gave his head a disconsolate shake. “It’s been hell for our reputations ever since.”

“I can tell you’re suffering.” Rossi glanced toward the kitchen, hearing a noise that made him think Mudgie was seeing how far he could push the unfairly arbitrary boundaries imposed on the pursuit of cookies. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Scotch?....Cookies?....A four course meal?”

The doctor chuckled. “I take it your cohorts have rallied on your behalf?” His smile broadened. “You always were one to inspire cooperative efforts, Dave. It’s a gift.”

Rossi covered up a sudden bashfulness at unexpected praise by redirecting his friend’s attention. “Well, maybe after you’re done, we’ll share something.” He started toward the stairs. “I have to say, Aaron had a rough night.”

“How so?”

“Fever, delirium. Kind of traveled back to his childhood, I think.”

Marty looked thoughtful, but kept silent, opting to examine his patient before committing to any prognosis based on hearsay. Even if that hearsay was coming from someone whom he could see cared for the sick man as much more than just his co-worker.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Something cool was resting on Hotch’s forehead. It felt… _wonderful_.

He wanted to disappear into it and escape the itching, aching, _diseased_ feeling that seemed to be his entire existence at the moment. When the coolness left, he turned his head toward it in protest, willing it to return. Instead, a cool, calm voice took its place.

“Hello, Mr. Hotchner. It’s me…Dr. Palmer. You know: the one with the scar.”

Hotch’s eyes opened enough to take in the form of the man sitting at his side. He drew on what little strength he had. “Hi, Doc.”

His effort was rewarded with an approving smile that actually _did_ make him feel a little better. But his mind immediately wandered to smiles that touched his heart, and the one he wanted most was…

“Jack?”

Rossi had been keeping back, but hearing the hoarse, weak voice with its pleading tone, brought him forward. “Jack’s fine, Aaron. He’s resting and he’s doing great. The doctor’s going to check on him next. Jack’s fine.”

It bothered him to see the glazed sheen in Hotch’s eyes. It was the look of a man struggling to understand. Hotch’s mind was normally keen and sharp, slicing through nonessentials and grasping the facts and import of situations with phenomenal speed. Now, he looked lost. And maybe a little frightened on his child’s behalf.

“Look at me, son.” Marty took his patient’s chin and turned the gaunt face toward his own. “Focus…focus…Tha-a-a-a-t’s right.” But the gaze slipped to the side and fastened on something else. Something that made the eyes widen and blink.

The doctor frowned, twisting to see whatever was behind him that was worthy of such a combined look of confusion and…anger?…dread?

 

xxxxxxx

 

It was mocking him.

Clearly, The Thing On The Nightstand was enjoying his predicament. And it had everyone fooled. While these other people were present, it behaved itself. It kept still. Flying under the radar. Not drawing any attention its way. Waiting until he was alone and vulnerable.

Hotch wasn’t sure if the others could even see it. Maybe it _was_ an hallucination. But mirages faded and wavered. Their corporeal presence was spotty at best. The Thing On The Nightstand had a stolid, solid, substantial quality about it. It leered at him with evil intent and low character. He could tell it was a Thing of rudeness. It probably had bad table manners.

It wasn’t going anywhere.

And if the others couldn’t see it, figment or not, the responsibility of defeating it, or at least making it retreat, fell to him.

 _Die, rat-bastard!_ Hotch lunged.

At least, he thought he did.

 

xxxxxx

 

“Whoa!” The doctor caught his patient’s shoulders as he made an odd, abortive attempt to roll over, and eased him backwards until he was once again flat. He pinned the man down, keeping a steady, gentle pressure, until he was sure there would be no more sudden movements.

“Going somewhere, Mr. Hotchner?”

“I think it’s this.” Rossi reached behind Marty’s back and picked up the Bat-cam. “He was staring at this.”

Hotch watched in horrified fascination as Dave palmed the Thing. If they could see it, touch it, then it wasn’t an hallucination. But that meant that it…and all the nasty things it stood for…were _real_. He cringed backward for a moment, then renewed his resolve. The Thing still needed to be taken down. If it came close enough…

“Look, Aaron, it’s a remote camera. See?” Rossi masked his concern for Hotch’s apparent lingering delirium, bringing the decorated camera unit where the squinting eyes could get a better view of it. “Jack made it for you.”

And that seemed to be the magic phrase.

“Jack?”

“Uh-huh. It’s Batman. See?”

Hotch wove a little as he pushed himself up on his elbows, giving him a closer look at the Thing that suddenly didn’t seem so ominous.

Rossi reached over to the nightstand again, picking up the monitor that was keyed to the camera in Jack’s room. “And he has one, too…So you can see each other. Look…There’s Jack.”

Hotch took the monitor and gazed blearily at the little boy engaged in peaceful slumber. Slowly, a smile spread across his face. He laid back, turning on his side and holding the monitor close.

“Jack.”

The word was no longer a question, or a demand, or something to worry over. It was an expression of love. To Hotch, it was the most beautiful word in the world.

Rossi watched his friend cuddle down with the monitor. He saw the doctor take his stethoscope out of his bag. “He’s still really sick, isn’t he.” It was a statement more than a question.

He met Marty’s eyes as he glanced up.

“Oh, yeah. As a dog….”

Mudgie would have taken issue, but he was busy in the kitchen, having discovered and perfected the fine art of popping Tupperware tops off containers bearing cookies. 


	14. Secondhand Son

Dr. Martin Palmer was a prudent physician. He did a thorough examination of Hotch before coming to any conclusions or deciding on any plan of action.

Rossi kept a close watch over the proceedings. He paid particular attention to the expression on his friend’s face, hoping to glean clues as to how Hotch was _really_ doing. Not that he didn’t trust Marty to give him an honest evaluation; he just wanted to be forewarned in case the prognosis was bleak. For his part, the doctor could feel Rossi’s concern like another presence in the room. It was unfortunate that it would prove well-deserved.

“Relax, Dave.” Marty reached into his bag and withdrew a blunt-nosed pair of scissors. “He’s not going to die. But…,” he added with regret, “neither is he going to enjoy life. For a while, at least.”

“But the fever’s down. That’s good, right?” Rossi felt the need to grasp at something positive.

“Course it is. But…” The doctor was exercising extreme care clipping through the dressing snugged against Hotch’s ribs. He’d decided it would be easier  on his patient than unwinding it. “The thing is…this is the eye of the storm, Dave.”

“How d’you mean?”

“I mean, the fever he had was from flu. As bad as it was…and he’s still not completely over it…there’s a much worse fever associated with the measles that’s still to come.” Marty glanced up from his work. “The rash and the fever tend to spike simultaneously. We need to see that he’s as far recovered as possible from the first before the second, worse one, hits.” He returned to snipping through the layers of tape, leaning close to Hotch’s chest in the dim light.

“You were right when you said he hasn’t taken in enough liquids. We need to encourage him to drink as much as possible. That and the periodic deep breathing are important.” He paused as Hotch gave a weak, dry cough, placing a palm over the left side where the ribs were most vulnerable to re-injury, steadying them until the spasm passed.

When Hotch was quiet again, the doctor peeled back the now severed bandages. Rossi heard his sigh and stepped closer, looking over Marty’s shoulder. The rash had spread, covering ribs and stomach, headed down the waist and toward the hips.

The doctor shook his head in sympathy. “You sure you don’t want him hospitalized? Would make it a lot easier on you, and we could get him hydrated intravenously.”

Head turned to the side, Hotch had been gazing into the monitor still clutched in his hand, watching Jack’s easy rest. At mention of a hospital, he roused.

“No. No hosp’t’l. Please, no.”

Marty laid a hand across the warm brow and studied the look in his patient’s eyes. Something there stopped him from engaging in any persuasive tactics. This man’s reluctance was more than merely dislike. Something deeper and darker than that lurked in them. He stroked some hair back into place and nodded. “Alright. No hospital. But I reserve the professional right to change my mind, if I think it’s for your own good, Mr. Hotchner.”

“Aar’n. Name’s Aar’n.”

The doctor smiled. “I’m Marty. And I mean what I say, Aaron. I’ll do my best to let you stay here, but if things change for the worse, I’ll do whatever’s necessary for your recovery. Understand?” The glassy look he got wasn’t very reassuring, but Marty forged ahead.

“Stay with me, Aaron. Dave and I are gonna get you up and to the bathroom. I’ll sponge you down with something that’ll make that rash a little less itchy. Then you’re going to show me how deep you can breathe, and you’re going to drink as much water as you can. If we can keep up a routine like that, you’ll probably be able to avoid hospitalization. Okay?”

Hotch cast a sad look at Rossi, pleading for understanding. “No hosp’t’l.” The eyes grew even more soulful as he made the connection between staying put and the imposition it would be on his friend. “Sorry…sorry…sorry.”

Rossi had a hard time keeping his feelings from showing on his face.

The apology was too reminiscent of the words Hotch had muttered during his delirium. Too much like the child begging his father not to punish him for being ill.

 

xxxxxx

 

Hotch put up a manful struggle to cooperate, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. Dizzy and weak, he couldn’t control the cough or the sniffling. He seemed to have progressed past the explosive sneezing stage, but his sinuses were still painfully congested. However, the prescription strength, anti-itch spray the doctor applied to the rash was a blessed relief. He hadn’t realized how uncomfortable he was until the irritating itch was suddenly subdued.

He breathed deep on command, grateful when he felt Marty’s hands bracketing his sore ribs, supporting without compressing. He was vaguely aware that the procedure was being explained to Rossi, to be performed as regularly as possible after the doctor left, and they were on their own.

By the time he’d drunk more than his fill and been assisted back to his bed, Hotch was exhausted…and despite his groggy state of mind, well aware that he was too sick for Jack to join him. So he pulled the monitor close and fell into a doze, unable to keep his eyes open, but pleased that the last thing he saw…the vision he took with him into sleep…was his son.

Marty watched as Rossi tucked his friend in, pulling the light blanket up and caressing it into place with a gentle touch. He noted the deeply affectionate gesture as the older agent smoothed the younger’s hair as well as each individual eyebrow with a thumb.

And he thought he understood.

He moved to stand beside Rossi, joining him in watching Hotch. Both men were still, observing the signs of sickness; the hollowed cheeks, the raspy breathing, the occasional shiver despite perspiration appearing on the pale face. Marty broke the silence.

“Sometimes I wish I’d gone a different way...and had a son like that.”

Rossi shot him a sidelong look. All he saw was sincerity and a certain sadness for the path not taken.

“Why didn’t you?”

The doctor shrugged. “I was a moving target. Never in one place long enough to make it work.” He chuckled, giving his head a rueful shake. “Who’m I kidding?…I wouldn’t have given up my job for anything. I…had…to save…the world.” He grinned, glad he could be honest with his old war buddy. “You?”

Rossi matched his friend’s shrug. “I tried to make it work. Three times. Finally got it through my thick skull that some people aren’t meant for marriage…for family.” A slow grin appeared. “And who’m _I_ kidding? I wanted to save the world, too.”

A moment of silence passed, both men contemplating where their choices had led. When he spoke again, Rossi’s voice was softer.

“But then I found _him_. I dunno, Marty. Something…just…clicked. Swear to God,…of all the people I’ve met in this sad, old world…this is the one that brought out the father in me.” Rossi swallowed, surprised at the lump he felt in his throat; the sting behind his eyes.

With professional sensitivity, the doctor waited, letting emotions settle before continuing the conversation.

“What about him? Does he feel the same way?”

Rossi’s smile was the kind men get when they realize fortune has dealt  them an unexpectedly wonderful hand. “I think so.” When the smile vanished, Marty glanced at his companion.

“What?”

“His own father was…a monster. He’s dead, but sometimes I wish I could resurrect him just so I could…” Rossi tapered off, unwilling to give voice to just how much he hated Hotchner Sr.. Especially after Aaron’s fevered journey into the past.

“Is that how he got some of those scars?”

“The ones you see are from a different monster. The ones from the father, you can’t see. But they’re there.” Rossi sighed. “God help him, they’re still there.”

A few minutes of silence passed. Then, the doctor ended the conversation the way it had begun.

“Yeah. Sometimes I wish I had a son.”

Rossi’s grin returned. He bumped his friend, shoulder to shoulder. “We could share? Wanna?”

Marty’s answering grin was thoughtful. “Ya know, Dave…I just might take you up on that. But first, what’s his aversion to hospitals? Where’d that come from?”

Rossi rubbed a hand over his face. “That has to do with _both_ monsters in this man’s life.” He noticed movement on the monitor Hotch still held. “Why don’t you check on his son, and then we’ll sit down for a bit. I’ll tell you some more about Aaron.”

Marty nodded. “That offer for scotch or coffee still on?”

“So’s the one for cookies or a four course meal.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Down in Rossi’s elegant, epicurean kitchen, Mudgie burped and decided two dozen oatmeal and peanut butter cookies was enough. He turned his attention to the Tupperware lids he’d pried off.

They made great chew-toys.

 

 

 


	15. Fireside Chat

Jack’s examination was much easier and more optimistic than Aaron’s. He was in better shape than his father, and was even enjoying the novelty of staying in Rossi’s mansion.

The only fuss came when he realized his monitor had been turned off and he couldn’t see Daddy anymore. Rossi tried to explain the concept of privacy, but in the end he caved to the junior version of the Hotch glare, turning the monitor back on. He had a feeling Aaron wouldn’t be doing much of interest for some time anyway. The only concern was if he descended into delirium again.

So Rossi was hoping for a surreptitious opportunity to turn down the device’s volume. Seeing his father toss and turn in restless sleep wouldn’t be upsetting. Hearing ravings about his abusive childhood, or any other adult-themed parts of his past, would be. But the boy was fastened to the image of Hotch and Rossi was beginning to despair of getting a chance to make any adjustments.

The perfect distraction appeared in the form of a waddling Mudgie.

The dog gave his master a sidelong look…one that Rossi found inexplicably rife with guilt…and then clambered up onto the child’s bed. Rossi noticed Mudge didn’t leap and wondered if he’d somehow understood Prentiss’ injunction against ‘lickies’ and ‘jumpies.’ The dog cuddled up against the sick boy and heaved a contented sigh, much to Jack’s delight. While he was patting the animal’s distended, rumbling tummy and whispering all manner of endearments into the floppy ears, Rossi turned the monitor’s volume knob all the way down.

In the end, Hotch’s son was nicely settled; able to see Daddy, even if Daddy was kind of boring at the moment, taking great comfort in his canine companion, and engrossed in the coloring books and puzzles J.J. had made sure were on hand.

He even had enough of an appetite to brighten when Rossi suggested some milk and cookies…a rare treat when dinner wasn’t far off. Hotch was careful with his son’s nutrition. But Rossi, whom Jack called ‘Poppi,’ to the doctor’s delighted amusement, tended to be lenient about such things. Especially when one was ill and in need of a small luxury or two. Especially when one’s Daddy wasn’t there to see.

Marty smiled at the scene. It gave even more credence to his observation that Dave looked on Aaron as his own.

The doctor packed up his black bag as Rossi headed downstairs to assemble the tray of treats intended to tempt a sick boy’s appetite.

Marty had only just stepped out into the hallway when he heard Rossi’s roar…

“ _MUDGE!!!! What the hell did you do in here??!!!”_

The doctor reached behind him, giving the child and the decidedly guilty-looking dog a nod, he closed the bedroom door. _Doesn’t do much good to shield the boy from things he might hear over that monitor when there’s probably a lot worse being shouted out downstairs._

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Marty got his friend to calm down. But he had to admit, the sea of crumbs and twisted Tupperware pierced by fangs, scattered across Rossi’s terra cotta tiled, kitchen floor were…impressive.

He also smiled when the disgruntled dog owner added a bowl of water to the tray he brought upstairs, mumbling something about how that much sugar was likely to make Mudgie thirsty.

When Rossi returned, shaking his head at the sight of his dog lying on his back, belly exposed to the soothing strokes of Jack’s small hand, the two friends cleaned up the mess in the kitchen. Rossi looked rueful.

“Sorry about this, Marty. I didn’t call you over here to do housework.”

The doctor smiled. “I expect to be paid in scotch…and cookies…” He gave a gusty sigh. “… _if_ that hound of yours left any intact, that is.”

Things moved along at a cheerier pace when it was discovered that Garcia’s chocolate chip and sugar varieties had escaped. At last, with sizeable glasses of Rossi’s finest scotch and a plateful of assorted cookies, the two men settled into the soft leather armchairs in the den. Dave had a blaze going in the fireplace. The scene was set for what both instinctively knew would be a long, perhaps troubling discussion.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“So where do I begin?” Rossi stared into the mesmerizing flames, feet resting atop a brocade- covered ottoman, glass of liquor perched on the arm of his chair.

Marty assumed a similar pose. “Why don’t you start by explaining his aversion to hospitals?” The doctor sighed. “You know I’ll do my best, but there’s a possibility he might _have_ to be admitted.”

Rossi rubbed his face with one hand, following the gesture with a sizeable gulp of his drink. “When the fever had him last night, he thought I was his father for a moment.” The doctor started to smile; after all, it was a role Dave wanted to play. But the look on his friend’s face stopped him cold. “He kept begging me not to hit him…not to punish him for getting sick.”

“Ah…no…” Marty felt his stomach clench. Over the course of his years in practice, he’d seen his share of battered children. It was his private opinion that recovery was never one hundred percent. The adult always carried an echo of anger and pain in his soul. Like pieces of jagged, emotional shrapnel that could never be removed entirely from the wound. He had a sinking feeling that what had surfaced in Aaron was just the tip of the iceberg;  a frozen mass submerged, rooted in a lifetime of horrors.

Despite the twist in his stomach, he took his own healthy sip of scotch. “Go on.”

Rossi kept his voice to a low monotone. The words that would paint Hotch’s reality were strong enough without added emotion. “From what I’ve gathered over the years, the physical abuse was horrendous. The emotional abuse must have been just as bad, if not worse. He tries to hide it, but there’ve been a few times he’s let me in.”

“He trusts you.” The doctor offered what little support he could.

Rossi nodded. “More than he trusts himself. He lives with the fear that someday he might show himself to be his father’s son; that he’ll abuse Jack.”

Marty sighed. “I’ve just met those two, but I consider myself an excellent judge of character. It’s something you develop when your life, your career, is people-based.” He shook his head, voice sad. “Neither one of those boys upstairs has any meanness in him.” He glanced at Rossi. “Don’t get me wrong; a man can do horrible things when pushed far enough, but that’s acting _out_ of character. I’m sure your Aaron has done his share of damage, being in the line of work he is. But there’s no meanness in him. He won’t abuse that child.”

Rossi nodded. “I know. And you know. But somehow…he doesn’t.”

Both men gazed into the flames for a moment before Rossi returned to the original issue that had started them down this darkly shadowed path.

“He was in hospitals several times a year thanks to his father.”

“No one noticed? No one objected?” Outrage was doing a slow build in Marty’s voice.

Rossi sipped his drink. “Nope. It was a small town and Monster Daddy was a powerful man. Aaron was betrayed on every front. People who should’ve done something…didn’t.” His voice broke, but recovered. “He grew up thinking he wasn’t worth helping.”

“Damn.”

Silence reined as each pictured what kind of strength it would take to survive being assaulted repeatedly on such a deep, emotional level. Especially when the victim was too young to have developed any defenses on his own. And when he’d learned not to expect escape or release or help of any sort.

Marty was the first to speak. “You said there were two monsters in his life.”

Rossi nodded. “That’s where the scars you saw came from. Man who murdered Jack’s mother, the only woman I think he ever really loved. He did it over the phone so Aaron could hear everything.”

“Dear God.” The doctor emptied his glass. His host refilled for them both.

“The scars came before that, though. The murderer wanted to show his dominance over Aaron. He tortured him for hours. With a knife. Ended up that Jack and his mother had to be put under federal protection. Aaron wasn’t allowed to know where they were, or to have any contact whatsoever.”

The doctor’s voice was strained. “So how did it end?”

Rossi cleared his throat. “Aaron killed the bastard with his bare hands. I don’t think he’s ever reconciled himself to having done that. In his mind it validated the fear that he could become an abuser to his own son….to have that much violence inside him.”

Marty leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “That’s not how it works.”

“I know that. You know that.” Rossi sighed. “Somehow…he doesn’t.”

The doctor opened his eyes and leaned forward, considering what he’d heard. “There’s always more to a story like that…to a man that shattered. But are those the bones? The main structure?”

“Mostly. Just that Jack’s mother had divorced him because of his dedication to his job. One of the few things that gave him a feeling of validation ended up costing him dearly.” Rossi swallowed the lump struggling to emerge in his throat.

“One more thing. Aaron said to me once that if the people who are supposed to support you, stand by you, _love_ you…like parents and spouses… _don’t_ ,…then maybe there’s something wrong with you. His words were: ‘They can’t all be wrong.’”

“So he still feels worthless. Deep down. Where he hides his biggest secrets.” Marty sighed. “There’re a lot of damaged people in the world, Dave. But this is one of the worst things I’ve ever heard.”

The two men sat in somber silence, finishing their drinks.

The doctor finally broke the spell of quiet horror trailing in the wake of the tale of Hotch's life. “You know, it takes an incredible amount of sheer courage, and talent, and strength to make something of yourself when that’s the hand you’ve been dealt. I admire your Aaron. He doesn’t give up. He’s worthy of a great deal of respect.”

Rossi nodded. “I know that. You know that. Somehow…he doesn’t.”

 


	16. Bedside Chat

After discussing the cruel flames that had forged a soul like Aaron Hotchner, the doctor decided he wanted one more look at the man before leaving. He trudged up the stairs and entered the room where Hotch lay.

For his part, Rossi stopped in the kitchen to pick up Garcia’s map of his refrigerator’s contents. He intended to let Jack choose from the available entrees for his dinner.

Mudgie, on the other hand, would go supper-less.

 _Who’m I kidding?_ Rossi thought as he entered the boy’s room to see his dog being massaged and petted; treated like royalty. _As soon as my back’s turned, he’ll be feeding that disreputable, thieving mongrel half of his own meal. IF the beast can cram any more into that bottomless pit of a belly._

He sighed for the duplicity of Man’s Best Friend and kept quiet when Jack looped an arm around Mudgie’s neck, asking him what he thought about the options Poppi was offering. The winner was Garcia’s container labeled MAC ‘N CHEESE!

Rossi was grateful that Garcia had considered a child’s palate. There were several youth-oriented options included among the more sophisticated fare. A small, warm spark lit up his heart from within. The whole team knew how fragile Hotch’s appetite was; how it was always the first casualty when things went awry. Which meant that the savory, more complicated dishes Garcia had provided were probably intended to comfort Rossi. He smiled.

It was nice to be cared for.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Marty entered Hotch’s room as quietly as possible. He held his own breath and listened to the harsh sound of his patient’s. That was his main worry: the possibility of pneumonia.

At least, it _had_ been his main worry until Rossi had shed some light on the man’s past. Martin Palmer was the type of doctor who tried to be aware of emotional healing as well as physical.

Moving closer, he saw the ghostly illumination of the baby monitor casting the chiseled features in a bluish light. The eyes were closed. He assumed Aaron was asleep. But when he tried to disengage his fingers from the monitor so it could be set aside, they tightened, resisting.

“No.” It was a small voice; a sleepy, pleading voice. It went straight to Marty’s heart.

“Alright. I won’t take it away.” He sat down at the bedside and watched Aaron come out of his half-doze, becoming aware that he had company. When the glint between the drooping lids was focused on him, Marty spoke.

“How’re you feeling, Aaron?”

“’M okay.” The scratchy voice belied the words it tried to pass off as truthful. The doctor merely compressed his lips and kept steady eye contact; a ploy that eventually worked, making Hotch feel like the liar he was. He snuffled forlornly. “’M _not_ okay. Sick.”

The amended response made Marty chuckle. “Really? Gosh. I wouldn’t have known.” He was rewarded with a faint facsimile of a smile. It wasn’t true amusement…only Hotch’s acknowledgement of the absurdity of trying to make anyone believe he was in good health.

The two men observed each other for a few minutes. It was Marty who spoke first.

“I’ll be in to check on you every day, but if you’d like to talk about anything, I can stay with you now.”

Silence.

Even in the dim light, the doctor could see the considering look in his patient’s eye. _Probably knows Dave and I were talking about him. Probably wondering how much I know. And probably hates the thought of having his pain and his past discussed._

Marty tried again.

“We can talk about anything you like…Scars…Anything.”

Hotch swallowed the lump of discomfort at a stranger’s sympathy. He’d been lying on his side, the better to see Jack in the monitor. Now, a coughing fit claimed him and he rolled onto his back, preparatory to pulling himself upright.

Marty moved to sit on the bed itself. Reaching over, he placed his palm against Hotch’s left side where he knew the chronically sore ribs were likely objecting to being bounced, even by what he was glad to see was relatively mild movement; this wasn’t the deep, tearing kind of cough. He watched his patient’s face until the spasm had passed. While Hotch tried to catch his breath, the doctor tilted his head, peering at the injured area, running a gentle thumb over the ribs. Even through the dressing, he could distinguish each bone. When he found what he believed was the center of the pain…a small ridge where none should be…he sighed. It was either bone or cartilage, but it had the definite feel of wrongness and of permanence about it.

When he looked up, Hotch was staring at him, examining him in turn.

“I’m sorry you hurt, son. I wish there was something I could do.”

Later, if Hotch had to pinpoint a moment, an action, that told him it would be alright to talk to this man, that would be it. His scars weren’t painful. He could ignore them. But the ribs hurt. They were the injury that symbolized all the horror, and loss, and agony; the reminder that would stick with him for the rest of his life…feeling that large, warm hand take such care to minimize the effect of coughing, and then to locate the center of the pain that was worse and more frequent than he would ever admit…and then, the compassionate sorrow in the doctor’s eyes, knowing the injury, the pain, were defining elements of his patient’s life. And not treating him clinically, like a case to be assessed and discarded.

That was when Hotch gave himself permission to show a little weakness, to take someone besides Dave into his confidence. But he moved forward with caution, alert for any sign that he’d made an error in judgment.

“Hurts.”

“I’m sorry, son.” Marty repeated himself. There wasn’t much more to be said on his part. The words that counted, that might ease a little pain, had to come from Aaron. He could tell he was being evaluated. This was a time to use all his skill to create a safe place for this damaged soul to share at least some of its burden. He decided to stick with discussing the physical; he’d let his patient take the lead about anything emotional he cared to reveal. Marty moved his palm back over the epicenter of the rib injury.

“Does it feel better with heat or cold?”

The sigh Hotch gave was so deep, the doctor could feel a muscle-wince over the rib area. It had hurt.

“Dunno. Dunno anymore.” The tone was defeated. Hotch relaxed back into the bedding, demonstrating trust by taking a position that let Marty’s hand have unimpeded access to the vulnerable spot at its most exposed.

Marty knew it. It was a test of sorts. He smiled inwardly and kept his hand over the ribs. “You’ve had this too long to be able to make such fine differentiations in levels of pain anymore.” His sigh was sympathetic commiseration. “So…I’m going to stay here and see if keeping it warm makes a difference.” He saw Hotch’s chin lift a little, wondering how far this kindness would go…what its limits were. “And while we’re waiting for you to feel any difference, the offer to talk is still open. Otherwise, I’ll just sit here and try not to intrude on your thoughts.”

For a few minutes, it seemed his patient had opted for silence. Hotch closed his eyes and kept quiet, but let the hand on his side remain undisturbed. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost dreamy.

“What’d Dave tell you ‘bout me?”

Marty smiled. He felt he’d won the battle. Aaron was going to let him in.

“Enough for me to know he loves you like his own. Enough to see he considers you and your son family.”

A brief couple of coughs stole the doctor’s concentration as he once again tried to stabilize the damaged ribs. When they had passed, he moved his hand in a circular pattern, not quite a rub…gentler and lighter than that…barely moving at all. Hotch found it remarkably soothing. It took any bite out of his next question.

“What else? D’d he tell you ‘bout the scars?”

 _‘The’ scars…not ‘my’ scars. He’s not ready to admit ownership. He still needs that distance to handle the experience._ Marty knew he’d have to proceed with care. Nonetheless, honesty was the only way to ensure the conversation would continue, and have any merit when it concluded…however it concluded.

“He didn’t go into detail. But he did tell me how you acquired them…and others.”

Hotch’s eyes opened, trying through the haze of illness to decipher any hidden meaning. Realizing he just wasn’t up to it, he came to the same conclusion the doctor had. Hiding would do no good. Either the disguises were discarded, or this would just be wordplay.

And he was so tired of feeling alone. The people who wanted to help him, like Dave…he just couldn’t dump all the sadness inside him onto them. He couldn’t lay the darkness in his spirit out like a sidewalk vendor’s wares spread out for display.

He worried that they wouldn’t be able to handle the big mess he felt he was. Or, if they could, if they were strong enough to shoulder his burdens better than he could himself, he was afraid they’d regard him with contempt. Too weak, too damaged, too _worthless_. He heard the word hissing in his father’s long-dead voice.

A tear formed in the corner of his eye, but he hoped this stranger who might be safe to talk to, who might have the distance to be able to handle him without either being sucked down, or shown what a fraud this big, brave boss-man was…he hoped this stranger might mistake the tear for his measle-inflicted vision’s reaction to light.

Marty watched, still letting his hand cup the injured ribs, still dispensing warmth.

 _My God. Dave was wrong. He isn’t all scarred up inside. He’s still got open wounds._ He waited for a measure of calm to return. And refused to notice the tear.

Or the ones that followed.

 


	17. A Layman's Guide to Tears

Hotch was never more grateful for a man’s silence than he was for Marty’s.

The doctor sat beside him, maintaining a warm touch on his tender ribs…and said nothing while his patient cried. Hotch was painfully aware of the spectacle he made. Crying wasn’t a pretty business…even less so when the one doing it already had reddened eyes and a noisy, wheezing way of breathing.

But every time he risked a glance, Marty’s expression managed to convey that he not only accepted what Hotch was doing, he approved it. And when Hotch’s stomach muscles contracted, and he tried to conceal the descent into outright sobbing, the doctor’s free hand massaged them, keeping them from stressing the ribs he continued to protect beneath his steady palm.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

It took Rossi some effort to excavate the MAC ‘N CHEESE! that Jack wanted for dinner. Even with Garcia’s accurate, scaled map, he managed to take a wrong turn or two. It worked out for the best, though, when he uncovered a container marked TIRAMISU! along the way. It would be perfect as an evening treat….Something to share with Marty, if he was so inclined after checking on his patients.

Rossi heated Jack’s selection, bringing it upstairs on a tray along with milk and some of the salve the doctor had brought for the boy’s rash. Although the son was in much better shape than the father, he still was suffering the itchiness, dry cough, and runny nose that attended even the lightest case of measles.

Rossi passed by the door to Hotch’s room, hearing Marty’s voice speaking in low, soothing tones. Satisfied that the sick Unit Chief was in good hands, he continued on, intending to make sure Jack didn’t cave before Mudgie’s soulful eyes, and end up giving the dog a share of the steaming bowl of cheesy pasta.

The boy was indeed distracted by his canine companion. He’d rifled through the remnants of arts-and-crafts items the ladies had brought him, looking for something to decorate the dog. Mudgie was now sporting several stickers in the shape of gold stars on his broad, wet nose. Apparently the mutt would put up with anything if it increased his chances of an encounter with melted cheese. He had an unerring talent for endearing himself to the hand most likely to offer forbidden treats.

While Rossi was shaking his head and chuckling over his star-encrusted hound, his eye fell on the monitor. His cheerful expression faded. He couldn’t be sure without taking a closer look…and he didn’t want to risk drawing Jack’s attention by doing so…but it looked as though Hotch’s eyes had taken a turn for the worse. Either that or he was crying.

Rossi’s first impulse was to go to his friend, but he trusted Marty to know how to handle whatever was transpiring. So he moved the monitor out of the way, telling Jack it was a precaution to prevent misadventure in the form of Mudgie’s snout, which, as Rossi suspected was already dotted with cheese. He kept the boy company, intending to bathe and medicate him after he’d finished eating. He hoped a bedtime story or two would keep his mind off wanting to see what his father was doing.

Rossi’s mind, on the other hand, was filled with questions and concerns, completely occupied with Hotch.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch struggled. He didn’t understand why it was so difficult to get himself under control. He was a little ashamed of himself when he finally did.

“S’rry…s’rry…s’rry…” He gasped out his apology through congestion made exponentially worse by crying.

Throughout his ordeal, Marty’s faithful hand had never left his ribs, simultaneously protecting and consoling; its warmth a constant focal point in the emotional tempest that had ambushed Hotch without warning. The hand was still there as he tried to catch his breath.

The doctor’s words were soft, but a little puzzled. “What’re you sorry for, son? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“S’rry…f’r … _THIS…_ ”

“Ahhhhhh.” Marty nodded, looking like a wise, old sage who’d just found the key to the ultimate Truth Of The Universe. “I see. Crying’s wrong, is it?” He continued to nod, looking reflective. “Ahhhhhh, yes. With all our knowledge of human behavior; all the science that’s gone into studying it, quantifying it…we now know that crying’s wrong. Well…Wha’d’ya know…My word….That’s something.”

Hotch was hiccupping himself down from the uncontrollable sobs that had wracked him. But even in the aftermath, along with embarrassment and discomfort, he could feel the nudge of Marty’s gentle humor. He started to smile, but was still too close to the storm he’d just weathered. The impulse to grin felt too much like the grimace that accompanied tears.

The doctor understood. There was a fine line in Aaron’s mind between what he’d accept and even applaud in others, and what he’d allow himself. Marty tilted his head, giving a considering look to his hand still firm against his patient’s side. “Did we do any more damage here?” He kept doing the light, almost-rub, soothing the injury without stressing it.

Hotch shook his head, grateful for subject matter that was a safe distance away from his feelings. “’M okay.”

“I know…I know…you’re just a regular little ball of sunshine. C’mere, son.” Marty reached his arms around the body still trembling with reaction from the emotional tsunami, and raised Hotch into a hug. He could tell the man was uncomfortable, afraid such closeness would encourage the release of more tears. But he held on until some of the tension eased, taking unfair advantage. At the moment, he knew Hotch was too weak to refuse. He couldn’t resist, couldn’t fight back. But physical comfort was what he needed. So that’s what Marty gave.

After a few minutes, the doctor pulled back, peering at his patient’s face. “Let’s get you cleaned up a little.” He stood, helping Hotch out of bed, supporting him toward the bathroom. “Then we’ll come back here, and you can tell me why crying’s wrong. And I’ll tell you what I think about that.”

“’S’not wrong.” It was a snuffled admission; spoken under his breath, as though Hotch didn’t want to be heard, and was just saying it to set the record straight in his own mind.

But unlike Hotch, Marty’s hearing wasn’t diminished by congestion. He nodded. “You mean it’s not wrong for _other_ people. Just for you.”

Hotch gave him a wary look. He didn’t like being easy to read. And he wasn’t sure he had the strength to stay awake, let alone try to explain himself.

And he never liked being the center of attention.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

After a bathroom break, during which the doctor made Hotch breathe deeply again to help keep his lungs clear and stave off pneumonia, he settled his patient back in bed with a glass of his personal sickroom favorite, ginger ale.

In the face of Hotch’s uneasy silence, Marty took the lead.

“I don’t think you realize just how sick you are, young man.”

Squinting and wavering as he drew himself up, trying to sit taller, Hotch aimed for a defiant look. But the picture he presented was pathetically reminiscent of a baby bird suffering vertigo and teetering on the edge of its nest…in danger of falling at any moment. “I know ‘m sick.”

Marty sat back and observed the man. He needed rest and should at least attempt to eat. It was necessary to build him up before the fever attached to measles struck when the disease peaked. _We might have two or three days; four at the most._ He sighed, brow furrowed, but schooled his voice to be welcoming, inviting, nonjudgmental.

“If you feel like sleeping, go ahead and let yourself drift off. But if you don’t, maybe you’ll tell me why you think you needed to apologize for crying.”

It looked as though he might do so again, Hotch’s reluctance was so plain to see. When he gave a light cough, the doctor moved close, placing his hand on the sore ribs as though it belonged nowhere else. “We never did establish which was more beneficial; heat or cold.”

“S’rry.” It was out of his mouth before he realized it. Hotch closed his eyes and lowered his chin, hiding from the fact that he didn’t want to think about why apology was his first response in situations that revealed weakness.

Marty resumed the light, circular, massage over the rib injury. “Everyone cries. You know that. Hell…some people do it as a recreational activity. That’s why tearjerkers are such a hot item in the movie business.”

“I know.” It was a very quiet response. The person giving it clearly wishing for anonymity, for a safe hiding place.

The doctor sighed. “Do your muscles ache, Aaron? Do you feel weak?”

Hotch nodded, confused by the change in conversational direction.

“That’s because you’re sick. Your body heats up as it fights viral infection. In turn, your fluid levels drop. The first place you feel it is your muscles. They ache and they won’t respond the way they normally would.” The doctor saw a cautious look on his patient’s face; the man wasn’t capable of making any cognitive leaps and connections in his present state. He needed to be led to the conclusion Marty wanted him to accept.

“The same thing is going on with your emotions, Aaron. You’re weakened and you’re not responding the way you normally would.” Marty shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s out of your hands, son. If your mind is stressed, it’s going to engage in some unsettling, uncharacteristic outbursts.” He made a point of catching Hotch’s glance. “Nothing you can do about it. No point in fighting it. No point in apologizing.” He touched his patient’s chin, bringing his line of vision into more direct contact.

“Not…your…fault, Aaron. Not…your…fault.”

Hotch nodded, more because the doctor’s hold on his chin was making him do so, than because he grasped what he was being told. He was just too tired.

Marty saw the signs of weariness.

“You need to try and eat something, son. I’m gonna go see what Dave has on hand.” He released the chin and gave the ribs a gentle pat as he stood. “I’ll be right back, but we still have some things we should talk about…if you’re up to it. No rush.”

Hotch watched the doctor leave. He was too sick and tired to really wrap his mind around the finer points of Marty’s diatribe concerning his illness and its effects.

But he had the feeling he’d been given some sort of gift.

His stomach untwisted a little. He had just enough energy to retrieve the monitor; just enough left to smile when he saw Jack letting Mudgie lick a bowl of something orangey-yellow…and, judging by the dog’s enthusiasm, very tasty.

When Marty returned with a cup of Garcia’s chicken soup, his patient was fast asleep.


	18. Property Of

Hotch raised his hand, clearing a wide swath through the condensation on the mirror.

Uncertain how he came to be there, he stood before the moisture-beaded glass and stared.

At first he thought his face was blank, expressionless. Safe. But when he raised his focus from the scars mapped across his torso, he could see, deep within his own eyes, echoes of a faint, very quiet, very private horror…traces of terror.

At first he thought he was alone. But something was forming, emerging out of the misty steam that made everything, except his own damaged reflection, gray and insubstantial. The voice came first. Before the rest had fully materialized.

“What’d’ya think, Agent Hotchner?” A hand reached around from the back. Fingers claimed the intimate privilege of touching his naked, exposed skin. “This one’s my favorite…” The index finger moved slowly down the worst, widest, most prominent scar. A raised, white line running down the center of him. Separating the halves of his ribcage; the halves of his life. Before and After. The finger took its time. Feeling. Savoring. Taunting. Ridiculing. Humiliating.

Hotch’s breath was growing short. The hand stopped on his belly and flattened, pulling him back against the body standing behind him. The other arm came around to press against his chest, keeping him in place, keeping him under control.

The only movements he could make were to shift his eyes, helplessly watching his own defeat. And to tremble. The awful, involuntary shivering that broadcast his fear and weakness, bringing a low, nasal chuckle from his tormentor. With the intimacy of a lover, the arms encircled him…the hands explored him. He knew without even trying that he was mute. Incapable of sound…except for a thin whimper. It made the man behind him laugh.

Hotch felt warm, dank breath tickle the sensitive hairs inside his ear. “You’re my favorite, Agent Hotchner. You’re my masterpiece.” The hands pressed tighter, making it hard to breathe except in shallow, gasping bursts.

“I love you, Agent Hotchner…You’re mine.” The chuckle sounded again. “Well… _ours_ , really…You’re _ours…_ Aaron… Aaaaaron…”

Hotch’s eyes were drawn to the space in the mirror over his shoulder. He’d known the voice. He wasn’t surprised to see George Foyet leering at him, running admiring fingers over his sadistic handiwork. But then the words became a chant, and the chant was picked up by the other one, the one contemplating him with barely-veiled hate.

The implacable face stared back at him with eyes too like his own. “You’re ours, Aaron… Aa-ron…Aaaaa-ron…ron…ron…run…run… _RUN_!! You worthless, little piece of… _RUN_!!”

_Dad…no…PLEASE…sorry…sorry…sorry…_

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch’s eyes flew open.

Sweating, panting, disoriented. _Sick. I’m sick. I remember I’m sick. Not real. Just a dream. Not real._

Still, he coughed and craned his neck, searching the darkened room for any unwanted intruders…even imaginary ones. _No one. Just a dream._

His eye fell on the monitor. He pulled it closer, feeling the need to check on Jack. His heart spasmed when he saw two shadowy figures looming over the boy. It relaxed just as quickly when he realized his son was fast asleep, with Dave standing by as Marty conducted a brief examination.

Hotch startled when he saw Rossi pick up the twin to the monitor he was using. He closed his eyes and feigned sleep. He knew it wasn’t logical, but he just didn’t want them to think they should look in on him. After the dream, he dreaded two men standing over him, no matter how benign their intentions. No matter who. _Please…just leave me alone…alone…alone…Safer that way…alone…_

Sick, and scared, and weary, Hotch tried to blank his mind and escape into unconsciousness. But he kept hearing, against the backdrop of Foyet’s sneering whispers, the dead voice of Hotchner Sr., threatening him, laughing at him, yelling at him.

He finally dropped off, thinking how the one name he’d never heard his father call him was “son.”

 

xxxxxx

 

“Boy’s doing well.” Marty spoke in a whisper, folding the earpieces of his stethoscope down and stowing the device in his bag.

Rossi picked up Jack’s monitor, checking to make sure Hotch was resting quietly. Placing it on the nightstand where it would be visible, should the child wake and want it, he ushered both Marty and Mudge out of the room before speaking. Once in the hall, he kept his voice low.

“What was going on with Aaron earlier? Things looked a little… _intense_.”

The doctor gave a long, sad sigh. “Yeah. I’m afraid we’ve got some problems on our hands with that one.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he’s not anywhere near healed when it comes to his past.”

“Damn.” Resignation permeated Rossi’s words. “What happened?”

Marty shrugged. “He’s one sick boy. The physical weakness spilled over into emotive territory. I explained to him how one can liken the ache of muscles withstanding viral attack to uncontrolled outbursts of emotion…”

“Marty…” Rossi interrupted.

“Yeah, Dave?”

“You mean he lost it?”

The doctor nodded, abandoning the professional plateau for one closer to a common ground he could share with his friend. “Yeah. He lost it.”

The two men stopped outside Hotch’s room, listening for any disturbance. Rossi edged the door open and peered into the darkness. After a few minutes, he pulled it closed. They continued their way downstairs.

“He’s asleep.” Marty sounded pleased.

“He’s faking.” Rossi was decisive, sure.

“How d’you know?”

Rossi’s smile was grim. “He was _trying_ to be quiet. That wheezing congestion sounds a lot worse when he’s not trying to control it.”

The doctor hesitated, looking back. “Should we check on him?”

“No.” The agent kept walking down, step by step, Mudgie keeping pace. “He only does that when he doesn’t want anyone around. Whenever he’s not quite up to par, he tries to hide it. Feels safer when no one’s looking at him.”

Marty sighed. “That doesn’t sound good. Sounds like another aspect of his past. I’m thinking they’re not all scars…there’re some open wounds making that man’s soul bleed. Am I right?”

They’d reached the bottom of the stairs. Mudgie headed for his pet door in the back and a long overdue visit to his favorite shrubs and trees. Rossi raised his nose and remembered the TIRAMISU! glaring its neon label out at him earlier. He gave his old friend a sad nod.

“If you wanna talk about it, I’ve got something sinful in my fridge. It’ll make the discussion a lot more palatable.”

The doctor raised his chin, taking a long, speculative look at Dave. “I’m guessing it’s something Italian…sweet…and richer than a coupl’a old men like us should indulge in more than once every few months.” His look grew even more calculating. “Which means…tiramisu? Am I right?”

Rossi grinned. “So far, you’re batting a thousand…about Aaron _and_ the dessert.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Penelope Garcia couldn’t go cold turkey.

She had to wean herself away from the extended bout of practicing her culinary art that had been set in motion by Hotch’s illness. As sorry as her large, empathic heart felt for her beloved Hotch-rocket and his offspring, rocket-in-the-making, firecracker-Jack, she had welcomed the opportunity to immerse herself in the fragrant, tasty, blissful world of cooking.

Garcia adored browsing through markets, hunting for obscure ingredients she would never consider purchasing for her own, single consumption. She reveled in setting her creativity free, in taking a recipe and using it as a jumping-off place for something unique with a Garcia signature of deliciousness about it.

So, as packed as Rossi’s refrigerator was, she couldn’t…just…stop. She needed an encore.

And there was one member of the Rossi household that hadn’t yet been on the receiving end of her generous, gastronomic gifts.

Now, Garcia frowned as she shopped, reviewing her own foodie-profiles of the personalities involved.

Hotch was iffy at best. As much as the team kept an eye on him, his ability to consume mass amounts, or even moderate amounts…wasn’t.

Jack’s appetite had been taken into consideration. Sweets and child-friendly entrees abounded.

And she’d particularly delighted in providing Rossi with some selections that she was sure would rival even the best five-star restaurants his deep pockets could afford.

Which left one other appetite to consider. She roamed the aisles of her favorite Farmer’s Market, selecting only the finest ingredients. Peanut butter, bacon, cheese, beef, chicken, bananas, eggs, maple syrup for flavor. Oats and rice for texture. At the checkout stand, the cashier noticed the bright, happy, colorful woman who always made him smile. She’d been purchasing quite a lot lately, which made him smile even more.

He rang her up and bagged her groceries, noticing the look of joyful anticipation in her bespectacled eyes.

“Planning anything special?” He liked knowing how people put his goods to use.

“Oh, yes. Yes! Yes! Yes!” The rhinestones sparkled in her hair as she gave him an enthusiastic nod. “I’ve been cooking for a sick friend…or…er…friend _s_ …plural, actually.” She pushed her rainbow glasses higher on her nose, gathering up her purchases. “But I forgot someone very important in the rush. Gonna make up for it tomorrow.” She giggled and minced off on glittering platform sandals.

“Have fun!” He called after her, but she was already lost in thought, anxious to get home and concoct some delicious treats.

Garcia’s encore…Mudgie.

She just _knew_ Rossi would be surprised and delighted.


	19. Lesser

“I’ve eaten more sweets since coming to your house than in the last three years.” Marty stretched his legs out before him, the better to enjoy the warmth of the fireplace blaze Rossi had rekindled.

The two men had adjourned to the den once more, taking their ease in the Gentlemen’s Club atmosphere Rossi cultivated for one of his favorite rooms among the many his mansion boasted. When both breathed deep, contented sighs in unison, both chuckled at their unintentional synchronicity as well. But when the mirth died down, and observation of the weaving, flickering flames turned the mood pensive, the doctor broached the subject that hovered over them, waiting to be discussed.

“I think you need to tell me more about Aaron.”

Rossi gave another sigh; this one less of satisfaction, more to do with resignation. “I’ve given you the bones. What you might call the high points…or rather, low points of his life.” He tore his gaze from the mesmerizing fire, turning it on his companion for a moment. “The man’s been through a lot. It would’ve crushed some, but he just keeps soldiering on. No matter how much he’s hurting, he keeps going.”

Marty nodded, acknowledging Hotch’s endurance. “I think that’s for his son. If he wasn’t responsible for that boy, I think he might stop. From what you’ve said, I could see him putting on a brave face, while he takes leave of everything he’s built for himself…and just disappears; condemns himself to a lesser life, because he’s been taught that’s all he deserves. Someone who lives out his days brooding, and wondering what _he_ did wrong; why _he_ deserved to be cast aside, like a worn-out, little workhorse who got all used up and, in the end, was abandoned by the side of the road…unwanted.” Marty shook his head, feeling sadness well up inside. “Another child of a lesser god…” It was almost a whisper.

“What’s that?” Rossi looked up, unsure of having heard his friend’s words correctly.

Marty pulled himself straighter in his chair. “‘A child of a lesser god.’ Got it from the name of a play. Never did see the thing on stage, but the title jumped out at me. Over the years I’ve kind of paraphrased it, blended it with what I’ve seen of human nature.” He closed his eyes, letting the sadness of the concept wash over him. “The way I see it, if you begin with the premise that God created man in His own image, then, a certain subset of humanity who believe themselves to be innately marred, would say they were created in the image of a lesser god. A being found lacking when compared to He who created all the rest. Ergo, a _person_ found lacking, deficient…lesser.”

Rossi stared at his friend. “My God. That’s sad….Terrible, in fact. And not exactly how that phrase ‘created in His own image’ was meant to be taken.”

The doctor shrugged, grimacing in agreement. “Don’t forget: this is my own construct. There’s no official, psychological diagnosis…or syndrome…or theory. It’s just the ramblings of an old man who’s seen too much.” The voice sounded strained. “And whose heart cracks a little more whenever he comes across another Aaron: a fine, brave man who’s been injured to the depth of his soul.”

The flames claimed their attention again, until Rossi spoke.

“I’ve told him he deserves to be happy. But…and I haven’t said this to anyone else…I’m not sure he agrees. Even worse; I’m not sure he _wants_ joy in his life anymore.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Rossi shook his head, stymied by the complexities that formed the wall behind which Hotch hid. “I don’t know for sure. Maybe he believes all the bad things he’s been told about himself since he was a kid. Maybe he thinks by denying himself any happiness, he’s paying some kind of penance. Or maybe he just feels safer sticking with what he knows…loneliness and self-doubt. It could be a scary thing to reach for something better when you’ve been slapped down so many times. Maybe he’s tired of being hurt…just wants to stay still, because it’s safer, less painful.”

“Seems like safety is a big issue in his life.” Marty rubbed his jaw, trying to put himself in Aaron’s shoes. “Maybe this is his idea of protecting his son. He’s sacrificing himself in the name of stability, so his boy can have a father who doesn’t change…who’s stable and safe and reliable…never mind that his life is completely mirthless. Aaron didn’t have a normal role model to demonstrate how to do fatherhood. Maybe this is his best guess. Maybe it’s what he would have sold his soul for when he was growing up.”

A long period of silence followed, broken only by the pops and crackles of wood being consumed by the flames in the fireplace.

At last, the doctor levered himself out of his chair, giving a small groan at the effort it required.

“Well, I need to be gettin’ on home. I’ll be back to check on both boys tomorrow. We can dissect Aaron’s personality for the rest of our lives and still never really find out what makes him tick.” He cocked his head in the direction of the staircase. “But our priority now is to get some food into him. Build him up before the rash, and the fever that comes with it, take him down again.”

Rossi nodded, wishing he could magically transport the food Garcia had provided directly into Hotch’s deprived body. He walked his friend toward the front door. “You know, you don’t have to leave, Marty. There’s plenty of room here. You can stay, if you like.”

“ ‘Preciate that, Dave. But I’ve got a lady waiting at home. Gotta get back.”

Rossi’s brows rose. “Really? I thought you and I were such loners…no family…no sons…”

The doctor was hard pressed to keep his grin under control. “My lady’s been with me for twelve years now. You’d like her. Glossy black with just a few white hairs starting to show. Beautiful, brown eyes…”

Rossi heard true affection in the doctor’s voice. “Why’d you wait ‘til now to tell me about her? What’s her name?”

A gusty sigh preceded the explanation. “The name’s why I waited. It was just too…weird…too coincidental…after meeting your Mudge.” Marty turned, ready to make full confession. “My lady’s name is Fudge. Prettiest black lab I ever did see.”

Rossi was the first to crack. His chuckle proved contagious; the doctor lost his iron grip on lips already quivering with the effort of keeping a straight face. It was a much needed release after an evening of solemn discussion. Mudge and Fudge.

But at the door, the solemnity returned.

Marty slipped into his overcoat and paused, looking toward the second floor landing where both his patients lay. “It occurs to me that Aaron’s whole life is an apology; trying to fix things and make up for all the deficiencies he imagines join together and come to rest inside him. All his fault. Unasked for…undeserved. It’s a shame. He’s never gonna get back the time he’s lost feeling like a lesser version…a disappointment.”

Rossi joined him, looking in Hotch’s direction. “You think two old dogs like us can dig a fox-pup like that out of his burrow? Make him see himself the way others do?”

“I dunno.” Marty gave his head a slow, contemplative shake. “Might be too late. Then again…” He shook himself out of his thoughts. “Let’s worry about getting him well first. So…food, liquids, and if a deep cough hits him, try to keep his ribs from moving too much. Support and contain. Don’t squeeze. Got it?”

Rossi nodded. “Got it. Thanks again, Marty.”

The doctor deflected any gratitude with a casual flip of his hand. “See you tomorrow.”

Rossi watched him drive away into the night. He closed the door, and checked on Jack and Hotch once more. This time he believed the Unit Chief was truly asleep, judging by the wheezing sound of his congested breathing.

He returned to his den and checked his phone. Messages inquiring after Hotch’s wellbeing were stacked up; at least one from each team member. Sometimes more. _That kind of care and loyalty aren’t given to men lacking in themselves._ He returned each call, saying that Hotch was holding his own, but wasn’t out of the woods, and probably wouldn’t find his way out for several days. _At least it’s not bad news, even if it’s not the best._

Rossi watched Mudgie sneak up the stairs and nose his way into Jack’s room. After a few minutes, he followed, making sure the dog wasn’t crowding the child or hogging the blankets. Satisfied, he returned to Hotch’s room. Pulling up a chair, he sat by the bedside, watching sleep that was restless at best. He thought about everything he and Marty had discussed. But the one phrase that he couldn’t dismiss…that kept surfacing…that made his heart ache for Aaron…wouldn’t stop running through his mind.

_You’re not a child of a lesser god, Aaron. You have a right to be here. You’ve more than earned your place…a place with the best of them._

And when Aaron mumbled in his sleep…a small, frightened voice from his past…Dave took his hand. And promised he wouldn’t let go.


	20. All Roads Lead to Rossi's

Unknown to David Rossi, the troops were amassing on the outskirts of his domain.

He’d returned every concerned call regarding Hotch the night before, texting or speaking directly with each team member, promising to update them if there were any changes. He’d actually been relieved when his call to Garcia was shunted to her answering machine. He’d dreaded telling her about Mudgie’s destruction of her highly colored, very unique, possibly custom-ordered, Tupperware lids. Little did he know that the reason she hadn’t picked up was because she was elbow-deep in dog biscuit batter, laced with bacon bits, flavored with maple syrup.

Later, in the early hours of Sunday morning, after another restless night with Hotch, Rossi was coming to the realization that he couldn’t keep vigil at Aaron’s bedside, _and_ look after father and son during the day, _and_ hold to any semblance of a normal schedule, _and_ keep himself from exhaustion…without more help. It was a bit of a quandary for his tired mind.

Tomorrow the rest of the team, minus himself and their leader, would be back at work. Their time wouldn’t be their own no matter how much they might wish to donate it.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

At the same time, across town, Morgan was keeping himself in check, waiting for a decent hour before dropping in on Rossi. He was anxious to see if Hotch and Jack had come together like the natural forces with which he associated them; like iron filings to a magnet…connecting almost instinctively, with a snap and a strength that would defy all efforts to pry them apart again.

And he was very curious about what J.J. had meant by saying she was going to treat both Hotchners ‘like babies.’ It was something he’d discussed with Clooney at length, but he was certain the reality would be unlike any of his imagined scenarios of the Unit Chief in a crib,…wearing a flannel onesie,…curled up with a teddy bear and a baby bottle.

_I just want to take a quick look to see what’s going on. It’ll only take a second._

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Meanwhile, J.J. was luxuriating in the aftermath of a rare, uninterrupted day and night spent with her own family. But at the edges of her contentment, as she watched the overcast day dawn over Quantico, she was curious to see how her idea of baby monitors had worked for the Hotchners. And the parent in her wanted to see with her own eyes that Jack was being kept in a mother-approved fashion.

_Hotch doesn’t eat and curls up into a little ball when he doesn’t feel good…but Jack’s another matter. Can’t let him follow Daddy’s example… learn to react by going to ground like a wounded animal, hiding and hoping he’ll get better on his own, without help from anyone._

She sighed and sipped her coffee. The message from Rossi the night before had been hopeful, but guarded. She would feel much better if she could be sure Dave wasn’t working himself into a sickbed of his own in his determination to shoulder the burden of looking after his best friend and his surrogate grandchild.

_I just need to see; to take a quick look. It’ll only take a second._

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Reid was battling with his professional curiosity. He wanted to see for himself how his boss’ rash was progressing. He’d made his own mental timetable that meshed the symptoms for both flu and measles. In true scientific fashion, he needed to gather some empirical data to check on how accurate his predictions were. But underneath the clinical desire for proof, he also wanted reassurance of Hotch’s indestructability.

Reid would take tremendous comfort in being in the man’s presence just long enough to know the brave heart and compassionate spirit were still there, still indomitable, even if they were a little subdued at the moment. It was his secret hope to find Hotch asleep and, unobserved, peek under the blankets…behavior he knew would be met with disapproval and a wolf-eyed glare, should he be caught.

But curiosity was a powerful, driving force.

_It’ll just take a second. And it’ll be worth the risk._

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

Early morning found Prentiss putting together a goody bag; a grownup version of the arts-and-crafts one that had delighted Jack the day before. She’d spent her evening browsing for things to keep Hotch occupied once he was better, but still confined to a bed; and for a treat or two to give him something to look forward to, to spur on his complete recovery. The opportunity to demonstrate to her tight-lipped boss that he wasn’t as inscrutably unreadable as he thought, was a challenge that made her smile.

Prentiss loved pushing the boundaries. This seemed like a marvelous chance for some affectionate ribbing. _And speaking of ribs…_ She grinned as she added a gift certificate to the bag: dinner for two at Shandy’s Rib House, the finest, greasiest place for barbecue in Quantico. _Subtext: We know your weak spot, Hotch. And we know you don’t eat enough. And we know you’d feel better and certain parts of you would be better protected if they had a little more padding. Ribs, Boss-man…Ribs for your ribs…_

When her phone announced Garcia was trying to reach her, Prentiss’ grin grew wider.

“Hey, Penelope…You’re _never_ up this early, so I’m guessing you never got to sleep. Am I right?”

“Ohhhhh…but it was _so_ worth it, my vision. Or _will_ be once I get to Rossi’s.” No weariness tinged Garcia’s words. It was the voice of a woman who’d spent the night doing something she loved.

Prentiss remained silent as a frisson of alarm shivered up her spine. The carloads of food they’d just delivered to Rossi were but a day old. Could Garcia have produced… _more_?!?

“Please tell me you didn’t spend the whole night cooking…again? _Please_?”

The silence that followed was broken only by the very voluble sound of Prentiss swallowing in fascinated disbelief…almost dread.

“Gar-ci-aaaa? There’s no more room at Rossi’s. The fridge is full. The freezer is full…”

The response that came was in the voice of a terribly misunderstood Chef Extraordinaire. “It _isn’t_ for Rossi. And it _doesn’t_ require refrigeration,” sniffed Penelope.

“I’m intrigued.” Prentiss knew her friend. You could bet that Garcia’s pride in whatever she’d concocted would eventually make her want to share, resulting in her outing herself. And although the sheer volume might be alarming, the generous impulse that was behind it was…beautiful. It was that splendid loveliness in her soul that made Garcia’s excesses forgivable, adorable,…delightful.

“Well…” Garcia hadn’t yet decided to come clean about the bags and boxes of doggie treats wrapped in appropriate boy-dog blue to preserve Mudge’s male dignity. “…I’m headed over there and I just wondered if you wanted to come, too. Or meet me there…whatever…”

Prentiss smiled. The pretense of indifference was something Garcia, with her passionate nature, could never pull off. But Emily couldn’t resist pushing her buttons just one more time.

“Sooooo….are you asking me for my company, or do you need my spacious backseat to transport…stuff…?”

A gusty sigh preceded Garcia’s response. “I was going to pick you up on the way. _That’s_ how much I _don’t_ need additional car-space.” And then Penelope pushed back just a little bit. “…as long as you’re willing to hold…stuff…in your lap, anyway.”

A few beats of silence fell into the exchange.

The laughter, when it came, was on both ends.

“I think my lap’ll be full. I got some things to cheer Hotch up, assuming he’s in the mood to _be_ cheered.”

“I made Mudgie a bunch of treats. ‘S’not fair that everyone else gets stuff and he doesn’t.”

“Awwwww…he’ll love you for that. Rossi, too. See you in a bit?”

“I’m leaving now. As soon as I pack the car.”

Prentiss sighed and closed the connection. She’d heard the crinkle of something that sounded suspiciously like wrapping paper. Only Penelope would giftwrap homemade doggie treats. _Probably found appropriately themed paper to do it in, too. And ribbons. Lots of ribbons._

She glanced at her watch and gathered up her own offerings for the Healthy Hotch Cause.

_It’s a little early, but we’ll just drop the stuff off. Rossi won’t mind._

_It’ll only take a second._

 

 


	21. High-Tech Teddy

Rossi was on his third cup of coffee.

That, plus a quick shower had helped revive him. But he still knew he needed to make other arrangements for the care-and-feeding of the Hotchners, or risk joining them in the land of the sick. He sighed.

_I’m just not as young as I used to be. I keep hoping to impress on Aaron that he’s not alone, and the first thing I do is demonstrate to him that ‘alone’ is my first port of call, too._

But then he made himself feel better by reviewing the high points of the still-young day. He’d managed to get Hotch to drink a glass of fruit juice and do some deep breathing. He’d helped him clean up, and left him with a large cup of chicken soup, crackers, and his monitor tuned to Jack, who was leaps and bounds ahead of Daddy. Jack was enjoying eggs, bacon, and toast. Rossi’s eye fell on the untouched bowl of kibble in its customary place on the kitchen floor. He was fairly sure it was a sign that bacon and toast were on Mudgie’s hopeful, morning menu, too.

He shook his head. Child and dog were almost inseparable. And as ingenious as J.J.’s setup with the monitors was, Rossi had a feeling that Mudge’s presence was doing more to keep Jack occupied and in his own room than any technological advancement in the world of baby care.

Having accomplished as much as he had made the day feel older than it was. So it didn’t seem unduly strange when the doorbell chimed at 8 a.m. on a Sunday.

 

xxxxxx

 

“Hey, man. This too early?”

Morgan leaned against the doorjamb, hands tucked in the rear pockets of his jeans. It was a studied stance; one intended to look as though he who executed it had no agenda in mind. This was nothing more than a casual coincidence that he should find himself in Rossi’s neck of the woods. No biggie.

Rossi’s slow smile said he knew better. “ ‘S’not too early, Derek. And if you want to check on Hotch, go right ahead.”

Morgan took the stairs, two at a time.

When he reached Hotch’s door, he came to a full stop and listened. His head snapped up, turning in the direction of a five-year-old boy’s giggled instructions to ‘eat slower.’ The small, impatient ‘woof’ that followed told Morgan that Jack was still in his own room. Not only had he kept to the enforced separation from his father, but it sounded as though he was recovered enough to enjoy a meal. Mudgie sounded in fine shape, too.

_So far, so good._

Morgan carefully pushed the door to Hotch’s room open and peeked through the crack, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior, secretly wondering if the crib and onesie of his imagination would be in evidence. But all he could see was the elongated lump of his boss’ body under the blanket, his face lit by the faint, eerie glow of a portable monitor. A plate with some crackers along with a large cup sat on top of the nightstand, steam still rising from the cup’s contents.

Morgan crept closer. It looked as though Hotch’s eyes were closed. His breathing sounded harsh, labored.

_Must be asleep._

Curious about the monitor that was mere inches from Hotch’s nose, Morgan moved to the bedside, lowering his own head, almost cheek to cheek with the Unit Chief, trying to see what was on the small screen.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi hadn’t made it back to the kitchen when his phone clamored for attention.

“Reid? Everything okay?”

“Uh…yeah. I was just wondering if I could come by and see how Hotch’s doing?” The voice was tentative, but eager.

Rossi shrugged. “Sure. Morgan’s with him right now…”

“Great! I’m on my way.”

Rossi sighed and continued toward his destination. If he knew his teammates, he’d be having company for the next few hours. A fresh pot of coffee and a look through Garcia’s diagram would allow him to play host with minimal effort. His eye fell on the mangled remains of Tupperware.

He would replace them, of course, but it pained him to have to admit that his dog wasn’t the gentleman’s companion he pretended.

 _Your true nature is about to be outed, Mudge. Vandal…sneak…thief…gangster of the canine world…doggie unsub…._ He heard an excited ‘woof!’ from upstairs. _And just about the best medicine for a little boy that God ever created._

His phone chimed.

“J.J.? Everything okay?”

Rossi smiled. This kind of ‘alone’ wasn’t bad…not bad at all.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Morgan’s highly trained awareness told him something had changed. The rhythm of the breathing…a tiny shift in position…something.

He pulled back far enough to see it: the glint of a dark eye, watching him from its corner. No matter how agile his movements, pushing up from leaning over his boss, almost completely covering him…Morgan felt awkward. And absurd.

“Hey, Hotch. It’s just me.”

“Why.” The voice was scratchy and hoarse, but the single word wasn’t a question. It was a command. _Explain yourself, agent._

“I…uh…I wanted to see what’s on that screen.”

Hotch’s long fingers tightened in an almost imperceptible display of ownership. Morgan’s inner profiler saw a weakened leader taking a last, forlorn opportunity to demonstrate control, as small and pathetic as it was. It tugged at his heart, although he’d never admit it. He’d seen Hotch like this before. Drained, struggling. The lion’s heart refusing to give in. An almost instinctive attempt to deny the need for rest, for help.

The best thing he could do was show respect; let the injured animal think it was still strong and dangerous enough to merit caution when approached. Morgan had every intention of just backing off and giving his friend some space.

Until the cough came.

It started small, but quickly grew into something deep and tearing, forcing Hotch to turn on his side, doubling over, his arms crossed against his midriff in a vain attempt to protect his aching ribs.

“Damn it!” Morgan abandoned the act of lesser alpha. With what Hotch would consider an embarrassing lack of effort, he turned the Unit Chief on his back. He pushed him flat, pulling his arms away, granting full frontal, unimpeded access. Morgan knew exactly where the worst of Hotch’s damage lay. He’d helped him recover from his Foyet-inflicted injuries. Ever since, it had been an almost subconscious reflex to keep an eye on the Boss-man’s left side when they were in the field.

Now, he placed one hand over the ribs, preventing the alarming, leaping and contracting motions that the cough was forcing on them. With the other, he pressed against Hotch’s diaphragm, massaging with just enough force to break up its convulsive movement.

“C’mon, man. Ease up…ease up…c’mon…please…ease up…” Morgan spoke in soft, soothing words, underlining the work of his large, strong hands on the body too weak to argue.

It took a while. And even when the spasms were no longer so violent, he maintained protective pressure, wanting to be sure that the storm had passed, that the muscles could truly relax. When it was over, Hotch lay panting, the look of combined gratitude and misery in his tired glance making Morgan linger, hoping the warmth of his hold would continue to comfort this poor, miserable man. And that his touch _would_ be more comfort than the challenge of a stronger male to a frailer.

He encouraged a few sips of the now tepid soup, knowing the act of swallowing could also soothe overused muscles exhausted from coughing.

He sat by Hotch’s side, resting a hand on his stomach. His grin was wry. “So…like I was saying…what’s on that monitor anyway?”

His leader tried to answer with a grin of his own, but was too worn to succeed. He pulled the small screen to his chest and tilted it toward Morgan. Leaning closer, Derek saw Jack…and Mudgie…and a feminine hand clearing away dishes licked clean. For a moment he frowned, wondering who it was. But when the little monitor picked up the singing…he knew.

The voice was sweet and sang in a minor key that was almost hypnotic.

“…blacks and bays…dapples and grays…all the pretty, little horses…”

There was something enticing about it that made you want to hum along.

“…bees and butterflies…flitting ‘round his eyes…”

The song continued. Morgan let himself get carried away in its gentle cadence, waiting until it was over before speaking the obvious.

“J.J.’s here.” He looked down at Hotch and stopped short. The body under his hand was breathing deeply, rhythmically, if coarsely. The eyes were closed. Lips slightly parted.

Morgan smiled.

He’d been toying with the idea of his boss in a crib surrounded by the trappings of infanthood. It had been a ridiculous image.

 _Or maybe J.J. knows better than any of us_.

He stood up and with tender care, tucked the monitor against Hotch’s chest, placing his hand over it to keep it close.

_I guess teddy bears can come in all different shapes and sizes…Just depends on what you need._

 

 


	22. Crime and Punishment

Morgan lingered over Hotch.

He knew he was being overprotective, but the man was weaker than he’d thought. _And stubborn as hell._ Even lying still, barely able to breathe, he’d kept up the I’m-your-boss veneer. And he’d done it out of the corner of one, teary, bleary eye.

_Gotta admit; dude’s got power._

He stood, finally deciding that the coughing fit wouldn’t make an ugly reappearance. He was halfway to the door when Reid’s head poked through the entrance, looking furtive. He craned his neck, peering past Morgan at the still figure in the bed.

“He awake?”

“Shhhhhh…” Despite Reid’s whisper, Morgan raised a hand, ushering him back out the way he’d come. But the young doctor was not to be denied. He’d been hoping to find Hotch asleep. He resisted being pushed toward the hall.

“No! Morgan! You don’t understand. This is perfect.”

“Out.”

“No! I need him asleep!” Reid was struggling to keep his voice down, but natural enthusiasm made it difficult. Once in the hall, Morgan pulled Hotch’s door shut before turning inquisitive eyes on his colleague.

“He’s in worse shape than we thought, Pretty Boy. You’re not gonna disturb him. I don’t get the feeling he’s had too much of the healing kind of sleep…ya know?”

“But…” Reid tried to sidestep Morgan. It was a useless effort. The larger agent simply scooped him around with one arm and herded him down the stairs.

“No ‘but’s, Kid. Leave him alone. We need to find out what Rossi’s doing about medical care.” Morgan sighed. “From what I just saw, guy could use some.”

Reid cast a longing look toward the Unit Chief’s door, but had to bow to the strong arm of Morgan…a force proving more powerful than curiosity and the need for empirical proofs.

For the moment.

 

xxxxxxx

 

J.J. had sung Jack to sleep after assuring herself that he hadn’t donated _all_ his breakfast to the Mudgie Mooch Fund.

She checked the monitor setup, seeing Hotch lying quiet with a hand she recognized as Morgan’s resting on his midriff. Smiling at her co-worker’s dependability when it came to doing his utmost to keep their leader safe, she collected the used dishes and ushered Mudge out of the room. She was in the kitchen with Rossi when the doorbell announced Reid’s arrival. When Rossi came back from answering it alone and joined her in putting out an array of Garcia-produced canapés, they exchanged smiles.

“He went right up to check on Hotch?”

Rossi nodded. “Yeah. He was mumbling something about ‘symptom progression’ and ‘recombinant adverse effect.’ Tell ya the truth, I didn’t really listen.”

J.J. chuckled. “Been there. Anyway…that just sounds like a fancy way of saying he’s worried about our poor, fallen sickie.”

Rossi raised one brow. “As opposed to why _you’re_ here?”

“Oooooo….b-u-s-t-e-d….But I only checked on him via the monitor. Morgan was with him. I think he was asleep, so I’ll drop in person-to-person later.”

The sound of hushed, but fervent, male voices descending the staircase coincided with Rossi’s phone.

He sighed as he saw the caller ID. “I’ve never _been_ so popular. On a Sunday. Early. Early on a Sunday. The traditional day of rest…”

“Awwww…poor Rossi.” J.J. stepped back to survey the appetizing repast now occupying the substantial space provided by the kitchen island. “But she’ll be happy to see everyone enjoying her food.” She saw the slightly smug look on her host’s face, and had a moment of doubt. “That’s Garcia, right? Or Emily?”

Rossi sniffed, affectionately superior. “Shows how much _you_ know, smarty-pants.” He put the phone to his ear. “Morning, Marty. If you’re asking after our boys, you might like to come by. Seems I’m putting on a rather elaborate, impromptu brunch.”

J.J. didn’t catch the words, but the tone coming from the other end sounded pleased at the prospect of Sunday Buffet At The Manse. Rossi closed the call as Morgan and Reid entered, the young doctor still arguing some point apparently very important to him. He was overridden by Morgan’s more stentorian voice.

“Rossi, we gotta get a doctor in here.” He shot a judgmental glance at Reid. “A _real_ doctor. Boss-man’s not so good.”

Concern flashed across Rossi’s face. He reminded himself that he’d been satisfied with Hotch’s progress a mere hour ago. And this evaluation was coming from someone who tended to overreact when his leader’s health and welfare were at stake.

“Why? What happened?”

Morgan’s look said that he couldn’t believe he had to explain something so obvious. “He’s _sick_ …that’s what happened. He’s out now because he coughed himself into exhaustion.” Morgan gave an abrupt nod, confirming his own prognosis and looking as though he were considering packing the Unit Chief off the premises in his own arms. “We need to get a doctor in here. Or get Hotch to a hospital.”

“I’ll check on him!” Reid volunteered a little too eagerly. He exited the kitchen, eluding Morgan’s grasp, taking advantage of the fact that the agent was distracted, thinking he had to convince Rossi of Hotch’s need for medical intervention.

Rossi shrugged. “A doctor’s on his way, Derek. He’s an old friend. If he says Hotch needs hospitalization, he’ll have it. But…” He lowered his chin, looking at the overprotective agent from under his brows. “…Hotch has made it perfectly clear that he’d rather _not_ go that route, if at all avoidable.”

Morgan’s hands fisted in frustration at his sides. “He’s not in any shape to make that call.” He dropped his voice, trying for a more persuasive tone. “I just held the man down ‘cause his bones were jumping all over the place from how bad it was. Guy almost coughed up a lung. Seriously, Rossi.”

The older agent kept his voice low, exuding reason. “That’s why it’s _not_ his call. We’ll do our best to honor Hotch’s wishes, but if the doctor thinks it’s necessary, we _will_ take him in.” He glanced at J.J., debating saying something else in her presence. Of the entire team, Hotch had only taken Rossi and Morgan into his confidence concerning his abusive childhood. The others had made shrewd guesses, but it was one of those things no one mentioned.

Out of respect.

Out of horror for the reality of it all.

Out of consideration and kindness for their leader’s feelings.

The doorbell chimed. With diplomatic finesse, J.J. excused herself to answer it, giving the embattled men some privacy. When she was out of earshot, Rossi still kept his voice down.

“Derek, you know how he hates hospitals. And doctors. And being separated from Jack when he thinks the boy needs him.” Rossi’s eyes were sad. “He’s already spent too much of his life in cold, unfriendly places having his body repaired. Let’s see if we can spare him that this time around. Okay?”

Morgan’s heart clenched, recalling the times he’d seen Hotch broken and bruised. None of them had been as bad as the times he’d seen his friend’s emotional injuries. Those were the ones that still hurt, still haunted. Might never go away. And _certainly_ wouldn’t depart, if they were kept fresh with visceral reminders in the form of repeated hospital stays. Still…

“A doctor’s on his way? Now?”

Rossi nodded. “One of the best. He’ll look in every day until Hotch and Jack are recovered. And he’s already said that he won’t take risks with anyone’s health if he decides admission to a hospital is necessary.”

Morgan chewed on his lip, brow furrowed, weighing a stranger’s words against his boss’ stubborn resistance. “I’d like to meet this guy, if that’s okay.”

“Of course. Like I said: he’s on his way.” _Good. At least he’s holding off delivering any ultimatums until all the evidence is in._

When Rossi heard J.J.’s voice, lifted, giving warning that she was returning so she wouldn’t intrude on any confidential conversation, he half expected it to be Marty. He braced himself for introductions, knowing his old war buddy would be under Morgan’s intense scrutiny. But when J.J. pushed through the kitchen door, she was followed by a smiling Prentiss and a blissfully bubbly Garcia, laden with _more_ bags and boxes of aromatic goodies.

At least, Garcia _was_ bubbly and effusive. Until she deposited her burdens on the counter. Until her gaze fell on the mangled remains of her Tupperware lids.

“Oh…” She breathed the word, eyes large with the effort of trying to understand the karmic link between her generosity and the resultant destruction of her property.

Mudgie had been very quiet, sidling his way closer and closer to the island groaning under its delectable spread of offerings. But his head swiveled when Garcia entered, tracking whatever new treats had entered his domain, thereby becoming fair game. Rossi bowed his head in shame for his canine companion, and stepped forward.

“Penelope, I’m sorry. I’ll replace them, if you’ll just tell me where to go.” Garcia’s eyes remained riveted on the torn, punctured lumps of plastic. “And I promise it won’t happen again. I’m keeping everything out of Mudge’s reach.”

“Mudge…” She pulled her gaze away from the wreckage, fastening instead on the quivering whiskers and limpid eyes looking up at her, brimming with hope and adoration; eyes that, on occasion, bore an uncanny resemblance to her own. As the others watched, unsure how this little drama would play out, Garcia knelt before Rossi’s dog.

“Oh, Mudgie. Oh…I’m so sorry.” She reached up to the counter and retrieved one of the giftwrapped bundles, extending it to the now salivating animal. “These are for you.” She shot an apologetic glance at Rossi. “And all the rest is for him, too.” She returned to addressing Mudgie directly. “And I promise, next time I come, I’ll bring you chew toys. Poor Mudgie. All forgotten and neglected…”

Garcia threw her arms around the dog’s neck. The hug did little to impede the progress he was making tearing into the package of homemade bacon biscuits.

Rossi could only stare.

_Larceny. Destruction of private property. Burglary. Breaking and entering. What he did was at **least** a misdemeanor…possibly a felony…_

Apparently, unsubs of the animal kingdom were subject to a whole, different code of punishment for their crimes.

 


	23. Parameters Redefined

Marty Palmer hadn’t been expecting such a full house when Rossi extended his invitation to a spur-of-the-moment brunch.

But then, neither had Rossi been expecting to open his door to find the doctor with an overnight bag slung over one shoulder, and a big, black, somewhat elderly, Labrador Retriever in tow. After introductions…a process that, eased by Garcia’s bacon biscuits, went particularly well for Mudgie and the newly-arrived Fudge…some explanations seemed to be in order.

“I thought I’d take you up on your offer to stay…” Marty raised an inquiring eyebrow. “ _If_ it’s still open, that is. And _if_ you don’t mind Fudge’s company.” The lady in question looked up from her I’ll-sniff-you-if-you’ll-sniff-me session with Mudgie, giving her tail one appreciative _whump!_ on the tiled floor.

Rossi’s smile expressed genuine pleasure for the company of his old war buddy. But he was also curious about what had changed the doctor’s mind.

“Of course the offer’s open, Marty. Always. And you can bring any old thing you want with you.” The last was delivered with an affectionate ruffle of floppy, black ears, resulting in a cadence of _whumps!_ that was impressive for both rhythm and enthusiasm. “Did something happen? Is everything okay?”

The doctor nodded, glancing from face to face. A lifetime of honoring patient-doctor confidences made him reluctant to talk about Aaron in front of strangers. Rossi read his hesitation and understood.

“They all know he’s sick…double whammy: flu and measles.” His smile had faded upon recounting Hotch’s ailments, but now it reappeared. “And they’re all here because they care about him, despite the other excuses they might set forth. If I subject them to interrogation, you’d find they all want whatever’s best for the Hotchners.” Rossi shrugged. “Aaron and Jack are family. We love them.”

Among the general nodding, the doctor noticed that one agent took time to study his own feet.

Morgan wasn’t comfortable saying he ‘loved’ any of his male teammates to a stranger. It was something that could lend itself to misinterpretation, and shift away from the macho alpha persona he nurtured. Ever since his own traumatic childhood, he’d been very careful about such things. He knew it was unnecessary baggage, but… _It’s **my** baggage, and I’ll carry it on my own for as long as I want._

Seeing this motley group’s tacit agreement…even Morgan’s, Marty still looked thoughtful before proceeding. He had the distinct impression that the abusive history Dave had shared with him concerning Aaron’s past should be treated with the utmost respect and discretion. His impression of Aaron as an intensely private man, made him decide that as long as he stuck to the symptoms and treatments of the diseases making inroads on his patient, he wouldn’t be risking any inappropriate revelations.

“Well, I need to take another look at him before I’m sure, but…remember I said this was the eye of the storm?” Rossi nodded. “As bad as the fever you already saw him through was, the next’ll be much worse. And I think it’ll hit within twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”

“How bad is ‘worse,’ Doc?” Morgan’s entire physical aspect manifested conflict. His stance, his voice, his expression. He was in complete approval of having a doctor onsite, twenty-four seven. But the intimation that what he’d seen of Hotch’s malady was only a forerunner of worse things to come, had started an inner dialogue that was about to start screaming that they get the man to a proper medical facility _NOW_!!

Marty took a long, considering look at the agent in whom he sensed a great deal of distrust… _And loyalty…And love, though he probably won’t admit it._

“That’s a question with no precise answer, Mr. Morgan. That’s why I want to be close by: in case some decisions of a medical nature need to be made.” The agent looked as though he wanted something a little more concrete than that.

“I’m going up to drop my stuff in a spare room?” Marty glanced at Rossi. Rossi nodded reaffirmation of the invitation to stay. “And then I’ll have a look at Jack and Aaron.” Direct eye contact made it clear that the doctor’s next words were for Morgan alone. “You’re welcome to come with me. Long as you step out, if I ask you to.”

Derek expelled a long breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. “I’d like that. Thanks, Doc.”

Rossi watched Morgan take the older man’s luggage from him as they started up the staircase. The act of simple courtesy reassuring him that the agent would at least listen to opposing arguments about hospitalizing Hotch. Especially if they came from a doctor.

“Take the second on the left,” Rossi called after them. “We’ll wait to eat ‘til you guys come back down.”

When he turned back to his guests, two pairs of canine eyes met his with clear disapproval. Waiting was not a popular concept. But Garcia eased the tension by digging through her shopping bags of treats, unearthing a second giftwrapped package; this time containing chicken biscuits.

Peace was restored. The threat of subversive, doggie unsub activity curtailed.

For the moment.

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

Upstairs in Hotch’s room, Reid took more than extra care in approaching his leader’s bedside quietly.

The Unit Chief was still holding the monitor against his chest, where Morgan had placed it. Any illumination it might have provided was muted against the sick man’s t-shirt. Reid waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, running over his projected timeline for symptoms and recovery, subject to a number of variables, when a man Hotch’s age contracted a virulent strain of stomach flu along with regular, run-of-the-mill measles.

 _Except there’s nothing ‘run-of-the-mill’ about it when it hits an adult_ , Reid reminded himself.

When he judged his pupils to have reached maximum dilation, meaning he could see as well as could be expected, he surveyed his intended research subject, deciding how best to accomplish his ends while minimizing the risk of being caught. He didn’t think a sick Hotch would be in a very forgiving mood if he opened his eyes to find his bedding being invaded by a curious cohort.

_All I really need to know is how far the rash has progressed. If it’s halfway down his legs, I can assume the rest of my calculations are arguably accurate._

Pleased that he could verify his theoretical parameters without having to intrude too far on Hotch’s privacy, Reid moved to the foot of the bed. He reached out and grasped the blanket hanging over the edge. By slow, gentle increments, he began to lift the fabric away from Hotch’s feet.

When a voice stopped him.

Even in the murky light, Reid could see that Hotch’s eyes were closed. His head barely moved. Side to side. Negating whatever was happening in the dim, subconscious world that claimed him.

“No. Please….Please, please… No.”

The voice was small and sad and utterly hopeless. It arrowed its way past Reid’s intellect, lodging directly in his heart. He knew almost instinctively that whatever was hurting Hotch now was from long ago.

_Something childhood related…Like me._

The feeling of kinship for another boy damaged, limping an uncertain way out of a difficult past, hit Reid hard. Any desire he’d had to inspect his boss’ body…dispersed. Reid lowered the blanket back into place.

Standing in the dark, he bit his lip and listened to his friend plead with some long-ago tormentor.

For the first time, Spencer Reid understood Morgan’s overwhelming desire to protect.

He heard low voices coming up the stairs, one of which he recognized as Derek’s. And it didn’t matter about being caught in Hotch’s room. Reid’s mission had changed.

From Research to Rescue.

He sat on the side of the mattress and rubbed gentle fingers over Hotch’s shoulder, unknowingly hitting on just the right words, whispered in the dark. Just loud enough to override Hotch’s pleas.

“It’s okay, Hotch. You’re safe. Nothing can hurt you here. You’re safe…safe…safe…”

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Deep inside a world of ghostly gray and grim, a sick, little boy trying to hide from Daddy heard.

_Safe…safe…safe…_

Hotch sighed and gave a light cough. Relaxing, he passed into a different dream.

When the bedroom door opened, admitting Morgan and an older man Reid had never seen before, the young agent drew himself up, raising his chin in defiance. He didn’t know who this man was, or what he wanted. But Reid was certain of one thing: he wasn’t leaving Hotch’s side. Not yet.

Morgan met his eyes and nodded.

_He’s ours. Ours to guard. Ours to keep. Ours to protect._

It was a rare moment of perfect understanding.


	24. Sorry Sight

Marty observed the young man sitting by Hotch’s bedside, one hand resting on the sleeping man’s shoulder.

He didn’t look hostile. Rather, _determined_. Determined to keep watch over his fallen friend. And a little bit anxious that someone might try to evict him from the spot he’d claimed at Hotch’s side. It was a sweet loyalty that Marty would never dream of challenging. At least, not in any callous, dismissive fashion.

He approached with respect and deference.

“Good morning.”

Reid nodded his recognition of the greeting, eyes flicking between Marty and Morgan, wondering who would try to oust him first.

“I’m Dr. Martin Palmer. I’d like to take a look at my patient...with your permission.” The statement was a diplomatic cross between request and command. The accompanying smile swayed it into friendly territory, rather than professional challenge.

“I’m Dr. Spencer Reid.” The young man didn’t move. He was taking this newcomer’s measure; curious about his background and how he’d come to be associated with Hotch.

Marty’s brows rose. “ ‘Doctor’ is it? What’s your specialty?”

“Oh, uh, no…he’s not _that_ kind of doctor,..Doc.” Morgan hastened to explain. Despite sympathizing with Reid’s desire to stay close to Hotch, he was anxious to let the _real_ medical man take over. The rough sound of his leader’s coughing and the alarming way the body had spasmed helplessly beneath his hands was still fresh in his mind.

“Ahhhh…a man of learning, of letters and intellect. Admirable.” Marty sighed. “I always wished I’d been able, had the mental capacity, to embrace other branches of academia. But, medicine was my calling. I can’t say I regret it…just sometimes I think the more one specializes, the more limited is one’s world.” Marty managed to make lack of a medical degree sound like an accomplishment. The innate respect in his response, and the slight inclination of his head, gave Reid enough reassurance to let him feel more confident in letting this stranger take his place beside Hotch.

Nonetheless, Reid stayed close. So did Morgan.

Marty smiled to himself at the silent devotion he sensed in Aaron’s friends. He set his bag down and leaned over his patient, listening to the labored breathing, noting the pallor and faint sheen of perspiration.

_Not good. Might be headed toward that final fever sooner rather than later._

He reached into his bag for his stethoscope, and the blunt scissors he would use to cut away the tape supporting Hotch’s ribs. The dressing needed changing daily. Otherwise the measles rash would become more irritated, trapped with sweat, a byproduct of Aaron’s body’s fight to kill off the viruses invading it.

He listened to the laboring chest in several places, wishing he could do so from the back without waking his patient, but deciding to wait. Rest was more important.

When it was time to cut open the dressing, Marty looked at both agents standing by. He already knew how Aaron didn’t like having his scars made visible. He didn’t know the team dynamics well enough to be comfortable making the decision to allow an audience. Scissors poised to make the first cut, he spoke over his shoulder.

“Would you boys mind waiting outside while I check under this bandage?”

Morgan and Reid glanced at each other, shifting position as they considered the request. Morgan spoke first.

“We know what’s under there, Doc. You might say we have hands-on experience with it.”

Reid took up the tale. “We were there when it happened…and there afterwards when he needed help.”

Marty was undecided. His words were quiet. “Do you know he _still_ needs help?”

“Yes.”

 It was spoken in unison, and with such sad acceptance, the doctor felt baring Aaron’s old wounds before these two wouldn’t be breaking any confidences. He nodded and began to cut through the tape with careful, small snips, letting the bottom blade rest on the skin, making slow progress while the cold steel pressed against Aaron as it worked its way through the material.

 

xxxxxx

 

Hotch looked up and saw the mirror. Again.

And again the gray, swirling columns of vapor that hid things…that wouldn’t let him find a way out…that kept him captive…and available, vulnerable, to whatever came for him. He looked into his own eyes, reading the silent, fearful plea. _Oh, please. Not again. Not…them. Please?_

When the hand reached around from behind, the fingers dropping a light touch onto the central, most vivid scar, he swallowed and closed his eyes, knowing what came next.

“Aaron?”

His eyes flew open. _Haley?_

“Aaron…” The hand was soft, small, gentle. It traced the path of his pain and he felt his wounds opening, flowing with guilt the color of Haley’s blood.

“Aaron, you were too late.” The hand flattened against his stomach, pressing as though to accentuate the ghostly words. “Why didn’t you come sooner?”

He swallowed and let his lids drift shut again. The better to concentrate on the blame that he knew…that he’d _always_ known…was his.

_Sorry…sorry…sorry…_

On some level he realized it was the same word he’d said to his father; the same word he’d been saying all his life.

“Didn’t you want Jack to have a mother?” The hand’s feather touch kept him present; wouldn’t let him go; strangely, they made the words feel heavier, like stones filling his soul so it would never soar free again.

_Sorry…sorry…sorry…_

“Did you want him to yourself so much that you let me die, Aaron?”

 _NO!_ _GOD, NO!!!_ His entire being shrieked denial.

“Are you sure, Aaron?” The hand was creeping upward toward his heart. “Are you sure?”

_NO! …No, I’ll never be sure…I tried…I tried…But…what…if…? Oh, God! …sorry…sorry…sorry…_

The small, soft hand reached his heart. He felt lips press against his neck. The scars were opening, something cold pressing and working its way up the front of him from waist to chest. He felt his guilt running from the now gaping scars for everyone to see. Tears running from his eyes. But what flowed wasn’t  blood, wasn’t salty liquid. It was something foul and clinging. Even as it ran out, he knew it wasn’t leaving him. It was just becoming more visible. Cradling him, encasing him. Weaving Haley’s phantom words and his own doubts into a shroud.

_NO!! I **loved** you!! NO!!_

 

xxxxxxx

 

“NO!”

Marty jerked back from removing the dressing wrapped around Hotch’s ribs, grateful for the dulled blade he was using. Otherwise, when Aaron had screamed and his stomach muscles had contracted, he would have been cut.

_In a place that he **really** doesn’t need any more trauma._

Morgan sprang forward, Reid right behind him.

“HOTCH! Calm down, man!” Derek pressed him back, knowing whatever Hotch’s eyes were fastened on was visible to him alone. “C’mon…HOTCH!”

The sheer force of someone holding him still…the power of muscle against muscle…broke through, clearing away the cobweb-gray miasma born of the worst part of him. The _most_ part of him, Hotch believed.

Marty sat back and watched the drama play out without his interference. It would tell him more about Aaron and his friends than hours of conversation.

“Hotch!…Hotch…Hotch…” The name transformed from forceful command to gentle bid for attention. Morgan’s touch went from powerful restraint to soothing caress. Reid had moved in, holding Aaron’s face still with long fingers laid against each side of the angular cheeks, drawing the panic-stricken eyes to his own; echoing Morgan... “Hotch…Hotch…Hotch…”

When the heaving, panting breath calmed as much as it could, and the bruised horror in the eyes began to recede, the doctor placed a hand over the half-opened dressing, adding his touch to the others.

Hotch looked from face to face, letting reality replace the people who waited, just below the surface of his dreams. He coughed, and blinked, and asked the question uppermost in his tired, troubled mind.

“Jack… ‘S he going through this?...’S this wha’ ‘s like for him?”

Marty didn’t have to know the details. It didn’t affect knowing what his patient needed to hear. “No, no…not at all. This is _much_ harder for you than for Jack.”

Through a sniffle and swaying regard, Hotch still recognized truth in the doctor’s tone. “Good. Good. Don’ wan’ him feel bad...”

And then Aaron laid back and closed his eyes; ashamed of what the others might see in them.

_What if Haley’s right? Oh, Jack…I’m so sorry…sorry…sorry…_

‘Sorry’ was becoming the melody, the soundtrack of his life. And he had no idea how to turn down the volume.


	25. A Touch of Light

Down in the kitchen, Rossi and Mudge were trying their best to keep four females entertained.

Mudge was doing alright with his special guest. After a surfeit of biscuits in assorted flavors, both dogs were stretched, belly-up, in a patch of sunshine; a portrait of overfed, canine companionship.

Rossi, however, was preoccupied, wondering what was going on upstairs. Especially after he thought he heard Morgan’s powerful voice shout Hotch’s name. When he’d glanced once too often toward the kitchen door, J.J. spoke up.

“You know, Rossi, we don’t have to do this…” Her gesture took in the elaborate Garcia-fest of food laid out on the kitchen island. “We just came by to make sure you’re okay looking after a couple of Hotchners.”

Prentiss grinned. “Y-e-a-h…one’s a handful, but _two_?” Her expression lost its cynical edge, turning softer. “You know when we’re working we want you to keep in touch...let us know if we can help. And how they’re doing.”

“Even if _they’re_ all away, _I_ can always help. Or find those who can.” Garcia added her assurance. “While Rocket and Pocket-Rocket are here, consider me your personal, domestic-help fairy, okay? Rossi?”

Distracted again, he seemed to be straining to hear anything untoward coming from his second floor. The gentleman in him was loathe to desert his guests. The friend in him longed to be at Aaron’s side. The ladies exchanged looks.

“Go on up, Rossi. We’re fine here on our own.” The gentle tone of J.J.’s voice prodded at him to follow his heart. But there was another reason Rossi didn’t want to intrude on whatever was happening upstairs.

“No…no, that’s okay.” He pulled himself back to giving his guests his full attention. “I really appreciate all the concern and offers of help; you know that. But, I think we’ll be in good hands with Marty staying close.” His eyes fell on the comatose Lab exposing its distended belly to the sun. “And with Fudge, too, of course.”

“He seems nice.” Prentiss didn’t know the background, the past events that had brought the doctor and the agent together, but she sensed it was a long, winding trail. One that had led to that rarest of gifts; a lifelong friend.

Rossi nodded and smiled. “He is.” Again, he glanced toward the door. “I just want him to have a chance to see what he can of all of you, Hotch’s team, with his own eyes…not through the filter my presence might impose.” His voice trailed away. “We’ll be fine.”

J.J. had been sitting on a barstool, using the counter as a backrest. Now, she pushed off from her seat, heading toward the kitchen door. “Well, _my_ presence won’t filter anything.” She gave Rossi a small, soft smile, filled with understanding. “I’ll just go check on…Jack.” The unspoken subtext didn’t need interpretation. She was going to make sure the male half of Hotch’s team were behaving themselves.

Rossi didn’t think it was really necessary, but his answering grin beamed relieved gratitude nonetheless.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Once Hotch had relaxed, once Morgan and Reid were sure he was seeing the reality of his surroundings, and not some phantasm dragged from the depths of his fevered, weary mind, they stepped back, giving the doctor full access to their friend’s body.

Hotch kept his eyes shut, wishing he were invisible…gone. He knew Morgan and Reid were watching with hawk’s eyes. Worse…with profiler’s eyes. He wasn’t sure; maybe it was a remnant of the dream, like a bad taste or a disembodied voice, but he felt ashamed, although he wasn’t sure why. Whatever it was, he was… _sorry…sorry…sorry_.

Morgan saw the Adam’s apple bob, the chest still heaving. _Something hurt him. Hit him hard. More than just a bad dream. Deeper than that._ He saw Hotch begin to tremble.

“Doc, he’s shaking.”

With infinite patience, Marty finished cutting through the dressing, answering his patient’s colleague in a low voice intended to lull everyone present, to drain any remaining tension away. “He’s sick, Mr. Morgan. In my day, we’d say he’s suffering ‘the ague.’ It’s a febrile condition involving alternating periods of chills, fever and sweating. But we’d say ‘ague’ when we didn’t know the disease causing the symptoms. When all we could name _was_ symptoms, we’d treat them and hope for the best.” He sighed. “There was always lots of ‘ague.’”

This wasn’t doing much to bolster Morgan’s confidence in entrusting Hotch’s health to this stranger. But Reid was hearing something different in the words, something he had to pursue.

“Dr. Palmer, where did you practice that you didn’t have adequate diagnostic procedures available?”

Marty smiled as he pulled Hotch’s dressing away, peeling it in slow, gentle increments. He’d known the younger one would be intrigued and would want to delve deeper.

“Where _haven’t_ I practiced would be easier to answer, Dr. Reid.” He bundled the used bandages into a ball, dropping them into a nearby wastebasket.

“I’ve done my best to lessen as much suffering as I could on nearly every continent.” He laid a hand on Hotch’s bare midriff, examining the weakened bones with a combination of prodding and mild massage.

“I’ve learned to improvise, to extract more use out of what I have than could possibly be expected.” He looked over his shoulder at the two men tracking his every move. “And I’ve learned that there is much more to healing than state-of-the-art equipment can provide.” He turned his attention back to his patient, taking a small bottle from his bag and dabbing some of its contents onto the rash that had been trapped beneath the dressing.

“I’ve learned one thing never changes, no matter where you are, no matter what facilities are available.” Marty returned the bottle to his bag and leaned closer to Hotch, feeling along his neck and jawline, noting how swollen the lymph nodes were.

“Human emotion.” His voice was still low, almost distracted, hypnotic, as he continued his examination. “There will always be fear, distrust, anger. But most of all…up to the very last, and maybe beyond…there is hope. And love.” He smiled to himself. “Mustn’t forget love. Love of friends, relatives…of life itself. I have seen some amazing things happen in the name and presence of love.” Marty sat back and tilted his head, observing Hotch with a solemn expression. His words, however, were meant for the other two.

“One or both of you think your friend should be in a hospital before the disease peaks.” All three men noticed the tightening of Hotch’s lips, the shudder that was noticeable above and beyond the trembling Marty attributed to ‘ague.’

Morgan was about to press home his point that Rossi’s place wasn’t equipped to handle an unexpected emergency, but before he could speak, he heard the doctor address Hotch directly, placing hands on the sick man’s shoulders, leaning close as though willing the sound of his voice to override his patient’s dread.

“It’s alright, Aaron. Don’t worry, son. I’m here. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Hotch’s eyes slitted open at the word ‘safe.’ He shivered with memories of sterile rooms, harsh lighting, and cold hands probing his wounds. “Don’ wanna go…”

“I know. I know. I’m not leaving, son. I’ll stay here with you. You’re safe.” Marty let one forearm rest against Hotch’s chest. After a moment, Hotch brought one hand and then the other up, gripping, pulling the doctor’s arm closer. Almost hugging it to himself. It was at once an expression of gratitude, and an entreaty.

The three men recognized the unspoken language embodied in the gesture: Hotch wanted a promise that he wouldn’t be shunted off to some impersonal place, far from anything resembling comfort…and far too reminiscent of the places of his past. And far, far, far too far from his son.

Morgan’s shoulders slumped in defeat. When it came down to it, he didn’t think he’d be able to handle the injured, betrayed look in Boss-man’s eyes, if he forced him into a hospital. He sought one last bit of reassurance from the doctor.

“You’ll be here? All the time? And you’ll get him more help if he needs it? You won’t just…I dunno…rely on ‘love’ or ‘hope’ or something?”

Marty nodded. “But don’t discount what I’ve told you about those emotions.” He brushed some hair from Hotch’s brow. “As a matter of fact, it’s been more than twenty-four hours since the flu fever ended.”

Morgan had no idea what the significance of that little bit of medical data could be, but Reid’s brows rose and the beginning of a smile touched his lips.

“Soooo…he’s not contagious for flu anymore. And…Jack?”

The old doctor looked at the young one, a large grin finally shining forth. “Yes, he can have his son with him…” He turned back to Hotch whose whole demeanor already seemed brighter. “…for a while…that is. You both still need undisturbed rest. So you’re not moving in together just yet.” The light in his patient’s eyes told Marty that even one minute, one hug, would be a cherished gift…something for which Hotch would sell his soul.

From the doorway, where she’d been watching, trying to remain quietly invisible, J.J. felt a small bubble of happiness rising up through her; setting her heart effervescing. With a grin that felt ridiculously wide, she went to see if Jack would like to come visit the Bat-Cave.

And the Dark Knight, who suddenly looked so much lighter.

 


	26. Raspberry Leopards

J.J. had to admit, she was so eager for the Hotchners to come together that she _might_ have been a little noisier than necessary when she entered Jack’s room.

The boy turned over, rubbing eyes that promised to acquire his father’s piercing stare in a decade or so. J.J.’s excitement, more communicable than any virus, transferred itself to him. The sleepy, little voice demanded an explanation.

“Wha’…?”

The adult voice tried to keep itself from bubbling over with premature joy…and almost succeeded.

“How’re you feeling, Sweetie?”

There was a giggle in the woman’s voice, struggling to break free. Jack could sense it. He did what his father would have done: raised his chin and subjected the person in question to a narrow, sidelong stare. _What are you **really** trying to say?..._

“’M okay.” After a few beats the five-year-old released J.J. from his regard, casting about the floor on both sides of the bed. “Where’s Mudgie?”

Thinking of companionship, his hand went out to exhume the monitor, buried in the bedding. Daddy might be boring to watch in the Bat-Cave, but Jack still wanted him close. It was one reason he treasured Mudge’s company: he could hug the dog and pretend the big, warm body was someone else…someone he wasn’t supposed to touch or be near, although he didn’t really understand why. But Daddy had impressed on him that, if something happened, if he wasn’t around, he expected Jack to obey the members of his team. It scared the child a little, but he was learning by example to hide feelings that might disturb others.

That’s what Daddy did.

And he wanted so very much to be just like Daddy.

Hotch didn’t know about the nights Jack had awakened, hearing muffled sobs coming from his father’s room. But every time he asked over breakfast if Daddy was alright, Hotch gave the smile that didn’t touch his eyes, and said “Of course I am, Buddy. I’m great.”

It was one of those mysteries Jack assumed would become clearer when he was older. In the meantime, he let Daddy cry, keeping the tiny wounds each of those tears inflicted on his own tender, child’s heart…secret.

“Mudgie’s downstairs. With company.”

“Oh.”

J.J. couldn’t bear the resignation in the single word, or the disconsolate look on the child’s face anymore. “Since Mudgie has a visitor, would you like to go on a visit, too? Jack?”

The small shoulders shrugged. “Guess so.” The dearth of enthusiasm made it plain the boy was being polite, trying to  be the gentleman his father said he should strive to be. Courtliness was another successful example that Hotch set his son.

“W-e-e-e-l-l-l, if you’re up for it, if you’re not busy…you know…no prior engagements…” J.J. lost the battle to keep happiness from spilling over, taking her words in a rush and tumble like cataracts, like river rapids running with delight. “…How’d you like to go see Daddy?”

Afterwards when she tried to describe Jack’s expression, J.J. would consider words like ‘stunned,’ ‘disbelieving,’ or ‘amazed.’ But when she scooped him up and looked into his Hotchner eyes as they began the walk to his father’s room, there was really only one word that applied.

Love.

And she knew in her heart that by allowing father and son to come together, Dr. Palmer had prescribed the most powerful medicine in his pharmacopeia.

 

xxxxxxx

 

After J.J. left to fetch Jack, Marty looked at the two agents hovering in the room.

“Gentlemen, I really do need a private word with my patient.” He inclined his head toward the doorway. “If you don’t mind.” There was no mistaking his tone. This was not a request.

Reid and Morgan stepped out, even going a few paces toward the landing to avoid eavesdropping.

Once he was certain they were alone, the doctor turned his serious regard on Hotch. Sitting at the bedside, he leaned forward, catching the sick man’s eyes with his own.

“I want to be sure you understand that this is only a _visit_ with your son, Aaron. And there is a condition attached.”

Hotch was distracted by the prospect of Jack’s arrival. He couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting toward the doorway, waiting for that first sight of his boy.

“Aaron.” Marty took the stubbled chin in his fingers and turned the head, forcing face to face confrontation. “This is important. You’re already starting to build to the next bout of fever. I’m predicting it’ll spike within the next twenty-four hours.”

Hotch blinked, unsure what he was supposed to do about something he couldn’t control.

“That means you need to drink, and try to eat as much as you comfortably can in the time you have left.” The doctor delivered his ultimatum. “Jack can stay with you as long as you take in liquids. Go slow, but steady. When you can’t drink or eat any more, I’ll want you to rest. Alone.” Hotch’s eyes finally took on a sad look of comprehension.

“Jack still needs rest, too, but he’s almost over this. You’re not. And I will _not_ allow him to be with you, or even watch you through _that_ thing…” He nodded at the spiky-eared Bat-Cam. “…while the fever has you.” Marty released Aaron’s chin and sat back. “Do you understand?”

Hotch searched the doctor’s eyes, reading everything he could with his profiler’s skill. His voice was still scratchy and hoarse; the kind of sound that made those of a sympathetic bent want to wince, feeling their own throats go raw.

“Doc…Marty…are you telling me this might be the last time I see my son?”

“No. I’m telling you there’s a rough time ahead. Something you wouldn’t want your boy to witness.” He saw Hotch swallow, doubt and even a touch of fear seeping into the dark eyes. Marty placed a palm along the side of his patient’s face, trying to convey what cautious optimism he could, without feeling he was leading the man into a lie. “You won’t be alone, Aaron. Dave will look after Jack, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

The doctor’s smile was sad as he patted the cheek under his hand, running his thumb once along the lean cheekbone. He remembered his discussion with Rossi about Hotch’s past.

“I’ll keep you safe, Aaron. You’ll come through this. I promise.”

And with that, J.J. and Jack appeared in the doorway.

It was like a cascade of sunshine pouring into all the dark cracks of Hotch’s soul.

Jack struggled out of J.J.’s arms, pouncing on his father before anyone could tell him to take care with the depleted body that would only, ever, always, look like that of a superhero to his worshipful, child’s eyes.

Morgan and Reid had drifted back into the doorway to watch the father/son reunion. J.J. stood aside once she realized it was pointless to try to ease the power of the force drawing the two Hotchners together. Marty stood and watched the two slam into each other.

“Daddy! Daddy!” The son buried his face against the father’s chest, throwing small arms as far as they could reach around the vulnerable ribs, the details of whose damage he didn’t know.

“Hey, Buddy…my Buddy…Buddy…Buddy…” The father responded by curling in on his child, wrapping his body around the small life for which he felt eternally, blissfully responsible.

The doctor was a little alarmed when Hotch’s breathing roughened. Until he realized the man was struggling not to cry. He glanced at the others and moved close enough to speak into Hotch’s ear, for him alone. He doubted Jack was paying attention to anything other than the familiar scent and feel of the man who was the center of his universe; who symbolized all he aspired to be on that far-off day when he attained his own adulthood.

With a small smile of sympathetic compassion, Marty leaned in and whispered. “Aaron, remember, you’re emotional strength is compromised, just like that of your body. Remember…it’s alright to cry.” When he saw Hotch let a few tears escape, he straightened.

The doctor looked at the three agents lingering in the doorway. He didn’t know any of them well enough to judge group dynamics beyond the fact that they were all extremely loyal, but Aaron was their leader. He was sure the man would prefer to keep any emotional display, any weakness, to himself. So Marty ushered the grinning trio out into the hallway.

Before he left the room himself, he had a few more words for Hotch.

“I’ll be back with food and drink for you both. Remember our deal, Aaron. And I’ll re-bandage your ribs later; after you’ve had a chance to eat and, hopefully, expand them a little with a full stomach.” He smiled as the two continued to reacquaint themselves…a tumbled bundle of snuggling, nuzzling affection.

“Be right back, boys…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Shortly after the doctor was gone, leaving the Hotchners alone and together for the first time in days, father and son drew back and surveyed each other.

Jack blinked, taking in his father’s physical appearance. “You have spots, Daddy. Just like me.” He stuck out one arm with its blotchy, red markings in proud display of measle-kinship.

“You’re right.” Hotch’s voice sounded gravelly, whether from emotion or illness was debatable. But the grin on his face, although gaunt, was genuine. He laid his longer, more muscular arm alongside his son’s. “Yup. Red spots. All over. Two of a kind.” Both pairs of dark eyes narrowed, inspecting the rash, comparing it, contemplating its implication.

“Kind of a brotherhood thing,” rasped Hotch. “Like a tribe.”

“Tribes have names,” Jack said with solemn conviction. He raised one brow in uncanny imitation of his father. “What tribe are we?”

When Marty returned, bearing a heavy tray laden with the most nourishing selections he could find in Garcia’s panoply of offerings, he had his first encounter with The Spotted Tribe of The Raspberry Leopards.

 

 


	27. The Nature of Perfection

Having impressed upon the _junior_ member of the Raspberry Leopards that the _senior_ member would be at his disposal only as long as he continued to consume the feast that had been provided, Marty left the Hotchners to themselves.

Once Jack had sworn ‘on Leopard’s honor,’ sealing his promise with the secret paw-shake…a convoluted affair that required the accompaniment of the tribal elder’s hoarse roar…he thought he could trust the boy to see that his father would eat. Although, in truth, it looked as though Hotch wanted nothing more than to lie still and gaze at his son, eyes swimming with adoration.

Downstairs the rest of the group were enjoying Sunday brunch.

After Marty had filled a plate, he joined them around Rossi’s immense, dining table, nodding when his host proffered a chilled glass of Mimosa.

“How’re they doing up there?” Rossi raised his eyes toward the ceiling.

“Well, I was only gone ten minutes. When I returned they had created a new social order and had even begun to construct what looked like a political caste system.”

Looks were exchanged all around.

“They are now a tribe.” An anonymous choke from Prentiss’ general direction punctuated the revelation. “The Spotted Tribe of The Raspberry Leopards.” The doctor sniffed a bit forlornly, dismissively, having been excluded from the tribe’s select membership. “Apparently, only those with the proper, viral pedigree need apply.” He sighed. “I didn’t make the cut.”

Silence. Except for an abortive snort traceable to Garcia’s nose muffled in a napkin.

“And they have a handshake, or…er… _paw_ -shake.”

Prentiss finally burst into laughter. She shook her head, smiling. “I bet Hotch was the kind of kid who had a secret clubhouse and spent hours making up a screening process for membership and the right to enter.”

Garcia and Reid chuckled, imagining their leader as the stern boss of a gangly group of neighbor children. Rossi and Morgan exchanged unsmiling glances. They were privy to Hotch’s reality. Neither could envision any levity at all in their friend’s upbringing. J.J.’s smile was small, but grim. Although no words had ever been spoken, she sensed the deep fault of sadness running through Aaron. And she had no trouble guessing its origin. Reid had likewise felt a resonant echo of the injured boy in Hotch, but, without any proof or confirmation, he preferred to pretend that his Unit Chief had been a normal, happy child…for the most part, anyway.

Marty scanned the faces around him, cataloging which teammates seemed to have inside knowledge. Seeing Morgan’s furtive look, he had a better understanding of the man’s stubborn protectiveness. To a certain extent, he approved it.

Once the meal was over, a discussion of specifics was in order.

The team wanted to be sure of Hotch’s welfare before they left, knowing work could keep them away for days on end. Nothing new was revealed, but reiteration of the obvious seemed to be a necessary part of the inevitable separation process.

“So you guys’ll spell each other? And you’ll get him to a hospital if he needs it? No matter how much he says he won’t go?” They were Morgan’s words, but the others were leaning forward, intent upon the answers. Ever and still…a team.

Rossi and Marty had ended up on the same side of the table. Now, facing the others across it, they felt part of some unofficial, but deadly serious, tribunal.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan.” The doctor was patient, appreciating the concern of Aaron’s _other_ tribe. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be worried. But your friend’s immune system has already been weakened by flu. There’s no telling how severe the measles’ peak will be…which I expect to happen fairly soon.”

He saw shadows invade the agent’s eyes and hastened to reassure him. “But he’s young and strong and in better physical shape than most men his age...” His smile was rueful. “..Hell, for most men of _any_ age…And despite what you may think of emotion and its importance in the healing process, seeing his son and getting some food into him, have me feeling very optimistic about what’s ahead.”

When Morgan sighed and eased back into his chair, the others took a subconscious cue, relaxing in turn.

“Baby Girl, you’ll keep us in the loop, right? Make sure Rossi and the Doc have everything they need…even if they _don’t_ think they need it?”

Garcia’s eyes were solemn behind her glittering turquoise frames. “You know it, Sugar.”

Morgan nodded, realizing he was pushing the boundaries, but wishing he could fix the entire situation; wrench it into shape by the brute strength of his bare hands. “Well…” He glanced at J.J.. “…at least we know how to help him get to sleep.”

Five other pairs of eyes looked at J.J., brows raised. But the only parent of the group, other than Hotch, returned their stares, puzzled. Morgan ducked his head in understanding; he hadn’t told anyone about Hotch being soothed to sleep by J.J.’s lullaby via the monitor.

“She was singing to Jack. Something about horses and butterflies…I dunno. But it put Hotch out like a light. I was listening and next thing I know…Boss-man’s gone.” He grinned at J.J. “Got some kinda magic, Little Mama.”

J.J. smiled in remembrance. “It’s a lullaby, Derek. An old one. Not too many people use the original words because some of them aren’t too pretty.” Her eyes took on the liquid shimmer of an inner vision, a picture of things lost to time and changing tastes.

“But I still like the old words. They make me think of something strange and lonely.” She shrugged. “Kind of like Hotch. I guess that’s why I sang it to Jack.”

After a few beats of silence, almost like the aftermath of a lullaby’s spell, Prentiss shook herself, blinking. “S-o-o-o-o…what’s the name of this magic song. And will it work if _any_ of us sing it?” Her grin was mischievous.

“ ‘All The Pretty Little Horses.’ And if it works on Hotch, maybe we can test it next time we’re on the jet.” A look of complicity rippled through the younger agents. Rossi just shook his head.

“If one of you starts singing into our Unit Chief’s ear, I want it clearly understood… _I had nothing to do with it_.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

 Brunch turned to lunch.

By late afternoon, Rossi’s guests had gone home.

Each had wanted to say ‘hi’ to Hotch before leaving. Marty allowed a few minutes, but knew Aaron was tiring. And he wanted some time to talk to his patient before he fell asleep for the night. He had a feeling the fever would be closing in on him. There were some things he wanted to discuss before that happened.

The more he learned of Aaron, the more he felt the man was a time bomb. As life piled experiences against him, his self-image was interpreting them negatively. It wasn’t his fault, but it was undermining his capacity for happiness and, worse, bleeding over into his son’s psychological makeup.

Marty was no psychiatrist, but he wondered how much more Aaron could take. The moments of true joy were too few, too infrequent. And his patient seemed to endure them as though they were undeserved, or would be snatched away and subverted into something punishing…so it was safer _not_ to enjoy them too much.

 _A curiously mirthless life_ , thought the doctor. _Even if he doesn’t crack, he’ll never be truly happy. Maybe he **needs** to crack…or at least understand the nature of cracks._

Finally, when Rossi had brought Jack back to his room and Aaron’s sad eyes lingered on the door through which his son had disappeared, Marty felt the time was right. He’d wrapped the ribs, sore now from unaccustomed laughter. His patient was tired. He was relaxed and as happy as he’d ever be in the wake of his son’s visit. His guard was further weakened by illness. The doctor pulled a chair to the bedside.

“How’re you feeling?” His professional regard traveled over Hotch’s face, noting details without even being aware of doing so.

“Fine. Good. ‘M okay.” The agent cleared his throat; sore from talking and Raspberry Leopard roaring.

“Feel up to a conversation…or maybe just listening…for a little while longer?”

Hotch nodded, avoiding using his worn voice. Marty handed him a can of ginger ale he’d brought up with a straw inserted. “Sip on this, it’ll help your throat feel less scratchy.”

Unusually obedient, Hotch did so, closing his eyes and leaning into the pillows stacked against his back. The doctor studied him for a few minutes before beginning.

“Aaron, we never concluded our discussion about why you think it’s wrong for you to cry.”

Hotch froze. He’d thought the explanation of why it was harder to control himself when he was feeling so sick _had_ been the conclusion. He was so tired, but he tried to pull himself together. He had a feeling he’d need to defend himself.

Marty held up a hand, forestalling any quick response. His intent was not to upset, but to open at least the consideration of new paths which might lead to Aaron’s forgiving himself for the tremendous number of shortcomings he seemed willing to own.

“Actually, I want to talk about more than that. I suspect your attitude toward crying is just the tip of the iceberg.” He paused, hoping he wasn’t pushing this man too far. “I think your expectations and treatment of yourself are merciless, Aaron. Undeservedly so.”

Hotch stared at his accuser, swaying slightly. Marty saw a frisson of fear pass through his patient’s eyes. He didn’t want people getting too close. They might see how much _lesser_ he was than everyone else.

“You’ve been talking to Dave.”

The doctor decided to brazen it out. “Yes...a great deal. You might as well know, he’s offered me part ownership of you.” The dark eyes widened. “I’m considering taking him up on it.”

The shock value of the statement had accomplished Marty’s end: to knock Hotch a little off base, claiming his complete attention despite his weariness, and derailing any defensive arguments.

“I…I…”

Marty’s smile at Aaron’s confusion provided a gentle segue into the real topic. “Look, Aaron…I know you’re not feeling well, and I don’t mean to attack you when you’re down. But there are a few thoughts I’d like to plant so you can sleep on them.” He leaned forward, accenting his words with a light touch on the unshaven chin.

“If it makes you uncomfortable to talk about things that are too personal, then just listen. Let an old man who’s seen too much ramble on for a few minutes. Think you can stay awake for that?”

Hotch nodded, still stuck on the idea of himself as a sort of timeshare or rental property. He covered up by seeming to be very involved in sipping more soda, but his attention had been caught.

Marty settled back, sighing. A distant look came into his eyes. He might have been someone’s grandfather telling stories about ‘the olden days.’

“I’d like to talk to you about the nature of perfection, Aaron.”

Intrigued, Hotch listened in silence.

“Do you know that in almost every society, every culture, somewhere in their pasts, before the possibility of pre-formed, computerized, mechanized, absolutely symmetrical creations were possible…perfection was a dangerous thing?” He didn’t expect an answer.

“It was. There were punishments for trying to attain it. People strove to avoid it. Why?” Again, a rhetorical question.

“Because it was thought that for a lowly human to aspire to perfection was an affront to the gods…or God…depending on the culture involved.” Hotch sipped a little more, watching with wary, if weary, eyes.

“The Greeks considered it _hubris_ , the inexcusable arrogance of pride, to think mere mortals could produce something perfect. Only the gods could do that. And if man tried, he would anger them.” Marty shook his head. “The punishment of an angry god could be devastating. Whole civilizations could fall as the price for a man expecting, aspiring, attaining…perfection. Very frequently, _im_ perfections would be intentionally included in works as a safeguard against divine rage. I personally have a basket woven by an elder of a Northwestern Indian tribe. It’s beautiful. Tiny deer incorporated into the design. Almost perfect…except for the one little deer who was deliberately created with only three legs.” The doctor’s voice grew softer.

“Very frequently, the punishment for individuals struggling for perfection was madness…or a joyless life…a punishment that could sometimes pass from generation to generation.” Marty paused, watching what he hoped was dawning awareness in this strict, young man’s eyes.

“It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to be sick. It’s practically mandatory to be flawed and lacking. To try to be anything else, anything… _perfect_ …is inhuman. And it carries a tremendous price.” Marty stood, brushing a last affectionate touch across Hotch’s cheek.

“We all need cracks, Aaron. It’s the only way the light can get in.” 


	28. Broken

Hotch watched the doctor leave.

Marty had touched his cheek, an affectionate, fatherly gesture that somehow didn’t feel out of place, despite their having known each other such a short time. At the door, he’d glanced back at his patient and nodded, smiling; a distant expression returning to the kindly face.

“‘May angels sing you to your rest, and may your pillow be made of wisdom.’” Amusement danced through the crinkled eyes. “Another old saying I encountered during my travels. Sweet dreams, young Aaron.”

But Aaron didn’t feel young at all. He felt used, and diseased, and battered from the inside out.

_‘S alright…I’m used to it._

Hotch placed his half-finished can of soda on the nightstand. He pulled the monitor showing Jack closer, cuddling down into his blankets while he gazed at the image of his son. The child was already deep in peaceful slumber, a faint smile touching his lips.

Of all that Marty had said, the one phrase that had chilled Hotch’s soul was that punishment for displeasing the gods could pass from generation to generation. He’d done his best to be a good father, but… _Maybe I’m so damaged, it’s impossible._ _And maybe the harder I try, the worse it gets._

He had a feeling that wasn’t the lesson he was supposed to take away with him, but he was too tired to examine the conversation from all the angles he supposed it had. And his head hurt. So did his right ear. And his throat. And he felt hot.

_I’m sick. I don’t wanna think about anything._

But he couldn’t stop the gears from turning, the images from forming. Finally, out of sheer, sick exhaustion, he drifted off.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

“Jack’s fine. His rash is starting to fade.”

Marty stretched his legs out, once again in the overstuffed, leather chair in Rossi’s den; a place that was beginning to feel like home turf. “He’ll be contagious for another few days, but the suffering part is over for him.”

“And the worst is still to come for Aaron?” Rossi took the seat opposite the doctor’s, handing his guest a tumbler of scotch in passing.

He nodded. “Sad, but true. Still, I’m glad they got some time together today.” He glanced over to where Rossi was settling in, mirroring Marty’s pose almost exactly, feet resting on an ottoman. “But we’ll need to keep them apart again when Aaron’s fever spikes. Boy doesn’t need to see his father that way.”

“Agreed.”

Both men stared into the fire, heads nodding in unison like bobble-head creatures on a dashboard.

“I got a chance to talk to him, but I’m not sure how much sank in.”

“ ‘S long as he listened.” Rossi pulled his gaze from the flames. “Did he? Listen?”

The doctor’s lips stretched in a mirthless smile. “Didn’t have much choice. Not like he could run away.”

“He has other ways of hiding.” Rossi considered the Hotch he’d come to know so well. “He can be a slippery, little thing without even knowing he’s doing it.”

“Well…” Marty relaxed back and sighed. “…I think with two old dogs like us on his trail, we’ll eventually run him to ground. Might take some time, but it’ll be worth it… _He’s_ worth it.”

“Hear, hear.” Rossi raised his glass toward his friend. “To Aaron, who’s worth it….”

Marty responded to the toast. “To Aaron, who doesn’t _know_ his own worth…yet.”

Upstairs, the object of their well-wishes moaned in his sleep, feeling the cracks the doctor had told him about open in his skin. But instead of letting in light, it felt as though lava was flowing from them.

Quietly, Hotch began to burn.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Marty had taken the monitor from Jack’s room into his own when he retired, as a precaution against the boy witnessing his father’s increasing illness.

At the age of five, Daddy was the only constant in a life that had been destabilized by tragedy. The older men both reasoned that seeing the center of his world weaken would be detrimental to Jack’s emotional recovery. He’d already learned that a parent could be taken from him. He didn’t need to be taunted with the cruel realization that _both_ parents were up for grabs.

Plus, the doctor wanted to keep tabs on Aaron’s progress.

But it was Rossi who woke at four in the morning, instantly alert, yet unaware of what had disturbed his rest. He sat up in bed, listening, every profiler’s sense sharpened and extended, questing for the cause.

_Aaron!_

There was no reason to think so, but he knew. In his marrow, in his heart, he knew that Hotch was fighting something. And that his friend was frightened and in pain. Rossi vaulted from his bed. In the hallway, all was quiet. A quick check on Jack proved he was still immersed in a child’s deep, restful sleep.

Rossi pushed the door to Hotch’s room open and flipped on the light switch.

In deference to the sick man’s sensitive eyes, most of the lights had been disconnected. Only the muted, bedside lamp blinked on. When Rossi saw what it revealed, he ran to Marty’s room, tapping on the door with rapid urgency. The doctor knew immediately.

“Aaron?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Here we go.”

 

xxxxxx

 

Hotch writhed on his bed, tangling himself in damp, clinging sheets. Fighting what felt like tentacles wrapping him in an inevitable hold, a purposeful shroud. Sweat poured from him. His chest labored for breath.

But in a deeper part of his mind, he was standing perfectly still.

In front of a mirror.

Again.

He tried to control the panic welling up inside him. Who would it be this time? His father? Foyet? Haley? His mother? Sean?

Expected, the hand reached around from behind. But not stroking…not delivering any sensual message at all. It didn’t gloat, or threaten, or blame. It was merely…contact. Innocent.

“Daddy?”

Hotch’s eyes closed in defeated horror.

_God, please…I don’t want him in this place. Not Jack. Please, please. Not my son._

“Daddy?” The hand patted for attention, unaware that the one it touched was unable to move, unable to speak. In this place, superheroes were frozen, mute. Victims rather than champions.

“Daddy!”

Something was changing. Hotch was a tall, long-legged man. The hand that could normally reach to just above his waist was moving higher. And the voice entreating him was deepening, maturing. When the hand reached his shoulder and gripped, Hotch forced himself to look.

The face that hovered over his shoulder was somewhere in mid-adolescence. Leaner and longer than that of the child who lived in his heart. But the eyes were unmistakable. Family eyes. Hotchner eyes.

“Dad. You made me grow up without a mother, Dad.”

_I’m sorry…sorry…sorry…sorry…_

“How could you do that to me?” The eyes were sharp, cruel, cold. Hotch squeezed his own shut, blocking out the venom in his son’s glare. But he couldn’t block the words.

“Did you hate me that much, Dad? You _know_ what parents are like.” The voice was rising in anger.

“ _You_ had a mother! You knew how bad fathers are…and _that’s_ the parent you condemned me to grow up with?!” The voice had scaled higher, but it wasn’t the result of emotion. Something was changing again. Tears burned Hotch’s eyes. He had to open them to let the scalding liquid out.

And he saw.

It was five-year-old Jack’s face again, staring up at him from mid-thigh level. And it was five-year-old Jack’s sweet, piping voice that delivered the line Hotch knew, had always known would come…

“I _HATE_ you, Daddy! I _HATE_ you!”

The cracks in Hotch deepened and spread, interlacing, joining, running with tears and fire.

Covered with guilt, and Haley’s blood, and his son’s hate, Aaron Hotchner…

…shattered.

 


	29. Vanishing Act

Rossi had brought some washcloths, towels, and a basin of cool water.

Marty had pulled the raveled, twisted sheets away from Hotch’s body.

Together, the older men pulled off the t-shirt he’d been using to cover his scars and the dressing around his damaged ribs.

“Should we take that bandage off?” Rossi was anxious to make Hotch as comfortable as possible. It seemed to him the less clothing or covering, the better.

The doctor paused, running over various possible scenarios connected to high fever and their consequences. “No. If the fever runs too high, there’s a possibility of convulsions. I’d like to keep the bandages in place. It’s kind of six of one, half a dozen of another…you know? Rib damage versus the slight ease unbinding them might provide.”

Rossi took a deep breath. “Alright. You’re the doc.” Hotch moaned, curling in on himself. “Should I get some ice? Should we cool him down?”

Marty shook his head. “No. First thing I need is to take his temperature.” His voice took on a studied, calm tone. It was the sound of someone assuming authority, taking on the burden of decision-making. It had been developed over the course of years and the treatment of thousands. And it worked.

Rossi recognized it as the matured version of the voice that had talked him through removing a bullet from a comrade in the Viet Nam night. He realized he’d been taking shallow breaths, tensing his muscles in sympathy with embattled Hotch. He relaxed. And said the same words in an eerie repetition of the events that had brought these two friends together so long ago.

“What next? Tell me what to do.”

The connection to their mutual past wasn’t lost on Marty. His eyes flicked up, met Rossi’s and…held…for a moment.

“Dave, we’ll get him through this. We’ve been through worse. And from what you’ve told me, he has, too.”

Rossi ducked his head in acknowledgement. “I know. It’s just...”

“It’s just that you love him and you wish you could spare him. Right?”

“Yeah.” Rossi sighed. “He’s been through too much. I just wish things could be easier for him; _life_ could be easier.”

The doctor’s rueful chuckle felt like a momentary alien presence in the apprehensive sickroom atmosphere. “We both know _nothing_ gets easier. What makes things _seem_ to be easier, for some, is learning how to respond to the tough times. We can’t control what happens in life. But we _can_ control how we react to it.”

Rossi nodded. “I know. Still…”

Marty’s lips quirked upward at one corner. “Yeah. Wise words, but I feel the same way: _‘Still…’_ ”

The two older men paused, looking down from opposite sides of the bed at the younger one, struggling against some unseen foe, lips moving with half-formed, unheard words. Marty rummaged through his bag, coming up with a digital thermometer. It took both hands for him to use it. One flattened against Hotch’s cheek, holding his head steady. The other tried to insert the device under his tongue. After a moment, the doctor hissed disapproval at himself. _Sheesh! You care about him, too. So much so that you’re not thinking straight, Mr. Doctor!_

Abandoning the first, he plunged back into the bag, this time bringing up the thermometer he’d used on Jack. A brief moment in Hotch’s ear was all it needed to display its verdict.

103 degrees.

Rossi waited for professional interpretation of the reading.

“High. But not in the danger zone yet.” The doctor wiped the thermometer down with a sterile pad of gauze and placed it on the nightstand, keeping it handy for additional monitoring of Aaron’s fever. “If he goes over 104, I’ll likely make the decision to hospitalize him.” His voice remained calm, informative…in direct contrast to the information itself.

“Dave, be prepared. Even at 103, he could experience hallucinations or convulsions. Higher than 104…usually around 107…brain damage occurs.” He held Rossi with a firm look. “I don’t expect him to get anywhere near that. But in the interest of full disclosure…I’m just sayin’…”

Rossi nodded, shivering in sympathy as Hotch’s body shuddered, and tried again. “You don’t think some ice would help?”

“No.” Marty shook his head. “I know it seems like the logical thing to do, but it’ll have the opposite effect of what you’re hoping for.” He saw the quizzical, slightly desperate-to-help-Aaron look on Dave’s face and knew more explanation was needed.

“Right now his hypothalamus has reset his body temperature. In a word, the landlord turned up the heat to make it so uncomfortable for undesirable tenants, they’ll vacate. If you pack ice around him, the landlord’ll think he needs to turn up the heat even more.” Marty gave Rossi a grim glance. “The fever’ll increase.”

Rossi swallowed. “I’m glad you’re here. That might’ve been my first move.” _Who’m I kidding? My first move, if I didn’t already have a doctor here, would be to get this man to an ER._ He hadn’t expected Hotch to be taken so severely. The sight of him at the height of his illness gave him a new appreciation for Morgan’s stubborn concern.

Rossi sat on the mattress close to Hotch, bracing himself with one arm, the hand resting at the far side of the sick man’s waist. “Is a cool compress okay?”

“Sure.”

Rossi dipped one of the cloths he’d brought into the basin of water. Ringing it almost dry, he tried to wipe some of the sweat from Hotch’s face and chest. But the sick man was moving too much. His arms came up, crossing against his forehead, as though he were shielding himself from something. Marty grasped his wrists and brought the arms down, holding them still at his patient’s sides, letting Dave press the damp, cool, hopefully soothing, cloth against him.

Hotch tried to pull away, but it was a weak effort. The doctor had no trouble thwarting it. However, the small whimpering sound that accompanied the failed attempt to break free, tore at both older men’s hearts.

“God only knows where he is, or what he’s doing.”

“Or what’s being done _to_ him…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

He recognized it as a carnival funhouse.

But there was nothing fun about it.

He was surrounded by reflections.

The mirror of his nightmares had multiplied, hemming him in with sadistic intent. He was rooted where he stood. The silvered sheets of glass moved about him, weaving and sliding…occasionally shattering, peppering him with scattered shards, each one carrying an image he dreaded…each one scoring his already scarred flesh.

The voices of his past formed a chorus; every accusation, threat, taunt, rising from memories he hadn’t known he retained in such exquisitely excruciating detail. Each one sporting a fresh coat of brutal cruelty. But Hotch was tough. He could take it.

Until that one voice he’d never imagined would be raised against him joined in. Not from the past, but from the future.

Jack.

His son, finally grown and seeing what everyone else had seen in him all his life: Daddy was a failure, worthless…never good enough. Fraud. Coward. Someone whose only hope was to hide. Otherwise, if anyone got too close, they’d see him for what he was. It didn’t matter how much love was in his heart. Or how hard he tried.

Worthless.

Failure.

Better off without you.

Why else would his own father have despised him…his wife left him…even his superior at work tried to destroy him?

Weak and ill, Hotch started to cry. But when he saw the tears, he screamed in sick, tortured defeat, wailing his heartbreak at seeing what he’d always suspected.

Each small, clear drop was another tiny mirror, reflecting the empty hollowness he’d always known was inside him. The lack. The lesser-ness. The reason he was so hate-able…so easy to abandon. Empty. No solid core. A malfunction. An error.

And he didn’t know how to run from himself. And he couldn’t hide far enough or deep enough. His worthlessness would always make itself known. _The truth will out…_

Hotch curled into a tight, painful ball, realizing he’d found the only tribe where he truly belonged. They surrounded him. They stared out of the mirrors and mocked him.

The Tribe Of Those Who Hate Aaron Hotchner.

 

xxxxxx

 

When Hotch stopped writhing, stopped trying to defend himself…when he contracted, seemingly determined to take up the least amount of space possible…Rossi couldn’t stand it anymore.

_He’s trying to disappear…another form of hiding._

He stopped applying the questionable comfort of cool compresses. Scooting closer, he lifted Hotch against himself, tightened one arm around the shivering, sweating shoulders and one around the waist…and refused to let his friend vanish any further.


	30. Turning Point

So intent were Marty and Rossi on tending to Hotch, they didn’t realize how much time had passed. Until they were reminded.

A small gasp.

Standing in the doorway.

Jack.

Come to see Daddy, Spotted Chief of the Raspberry Leopards. Come to paw-shake and nuzzle against the strong, solid warmth of the chest that contained the most beautiful, noble heart in the whole, wide world.

Jack.

Watching with wide, horrified eyes. Hotchner eyes at their most vulnerable.

Rossi’s arms were still full of Aaron; had been for the last two hours. Marty had been monitoring his patient’s temperature and wiping him down with cool, damp cloths. He’d crushed some ibuprofen, intending to dissolve it into fruit juice, and try to get a few sips into Hotch, but Rossi had put a stop to it. He knew Aaron’s stomach was sensitive. The aftermath of that particular drug, in the Unit Chief’s words, felt like ‘trying to digest crushed glass.’

So the doctor had found some acetaminophen and was about to crush a tablet, hoping it would reduce the fever a little without hurting Hotch’s digestive system, when he picked up on something having gone terribly wrong.

The entire time Rossi was holding Hotch, he’d been talking to him, murmuring soft words over and over; the general theme being safety and love. When the constant stream of comforting sounds stopped, Marty glanced at his friend. The look on Rossi’s face made the doctor follow his stare.

There in the doorway. The littlest Hotchner. Seeing something no child should: Daddy; his one, surviving parent; his last tie to normalcy and security…trembling, sweating, crying.

Weak.

Endangered.

“Oh, God.” Rossi spoke under his breath. “Get him out of here.”

He hadn’t needed to say it. Marty was already on his feet and halfway to the child.

But Hotchners are an agile breed.

They weren’t the most heavily muscled of men. But they were built slim, built quick, built crafty. Too fast for an old doctor. Jack darted and spun, evading well-meaning hands that would have taken him from the sight of his delirious, downed superhero.

Jack dodged and twisted, winning his way to the bed. Launching himself onto the nest of tangled sheets. Fastening onto Hotch with a fervor and purpose that would not be denied.

Rossi did his best.

“Jack, you need to go with Dr. Palmer, son. Your Daddy’ll be fine, but we need to give him rest…Remember? Remember what Ms. Garcia told you about Batman needing to be alone in the Bat Cave?” Rossi tried to keep too much emotion from leaking into the words. He tried to sound calm and adult and matter-of-fact. He willed his voice to be one that merited unquestioned obedience.

But Hotchners are also a smart breed.

Jack twined himself around his father and turned a glare on the rest of the world that would have made Aaron proud. It made both grown men flinch backwards. Only for a moment. Only a small flinch. But, then, it was only a small Hotchner defying them.

“Please, son.” The doctor approached with respectful caution. Force would not come into play here. He pinned all his hopes on his powers of persuasion. “Please, Jack. It really would be best if you went back to your room.” He extended a hand. “I’ll take you.”

Marty’s eyes brightened with another strategy. “We’ll find Mudge…And you haven’t met _my_ dog yet. Black as night she is. Name’s Fudge. Would you like that? I’ll get you some breakfast and the three of you can keep each other company?”

“No.” Jack tightened his grip. Rossi recognized the same tactic that Hotch had used when he’d melded himself to the doorjamb, determined to stay in his son’s presence, making it nearly impossible for muscular Morgan to pry his sinewy body away.

Dave couldn’t help feeling a touch of amusement. _They’re two of a kind in so many ways._

“No,” the child repeated.

Hotch’s body was shivering. Thankfully, he hadn’t moaned or made any of the small whimpering sounds that caused Rossi’s eyes to well with moisture.

Marty dropped the hand that had still been extended in invitation. His shoulders slumped. Clearly, ordinary subterfuge wouldn’t work on this boy who’d been through too many experiences uncharacteristic of childhood. It was time for simple honesty.

The doctor sighed, sitting on the bed, resting a hand on Aaron’s thigh, still drawn up as the man tried to make himself small, safely unnoticeable, blessedly anonymous.

“Jack, you know your father’s sick. You both have measles, but it’s a little different when you get it and you’re older. I know it looks bad, but I promise you, your Poppi and I are doing everything we can to make it easier for him. This is the worst of it. But it’ll pass.” He gave Hotch a considering look, patting the tense thigh muscle. “Thing is, we need to concentrate to take care of him, and that’s kind of hard when you’re here.”

“Why?” The glare was still in full force.

“Because we know he wouldn’t want you here. It makes us worry about the both of you…instead of just the one of you.”

Jack surveyed both men with a gimlet eye. “I can help.”

This time Rossi responded. “No. Jack, you can’t. Not right now. When he’s past this part of it, _that’s_ when you can help.” The voice grew softer, all pretense gone. Nothing but sincerity for Hotch’s son to hear. “You made your Daddy so happy yesterday afternoon. He needs that…needs _you_ …so much, Jack. But right now, you have to let us work on him alone. Then you can have him back. Please, son.”

With an expression that was years too old for him, the child pulled away and looked at his father. After a moment, he came to a decision. After all, Daddy had told him to do as Poppi said, if he wasn’t there. And, in a way, Daddy _wasn’t_ there. Rossi had a hard time of it when Jack loosened his hold, and drew himself up to press a soft, tender kiss on his father’s sweat-soaked, dark hair.

“I love you, Daddy.”

With unimpeachable, oddly adult dignity, the five-year-old climbed off the bed and allowed Marty to lead him away. But at the door he stopped, taking a last look at the man who defined his universe.

“My fault. My fault Daddy’s sick.” The sorrow and guilt in the words, and in every line of the small body as it turned away, was inappropriate for a little boy.

Rossi couldn’t help thinking that Jack was learning much more from Hotch than was good for either of them.

 

xxxxxx

 

Once he’d ensconced Jack back in his bed with Mudge and Fudge in attendance, and with enough breakfast to allow for canine mooching tendencies, Marty returned to Hotch’s room.

Rossi continued to rock his friend’s shuddering body, talking steadily about nothing in particular, as long as the words ‘safe’ and ‘loved’ were frequent. The doctor resumed his interrupted task of dissolving fever-reducers and getting them into Hotch, a sip at a time.

The next temperature reading was 103.5.

The older men’s eyes met. Both thinking the same thing.

“He doesn’t want to be hospitalized, Marty.”

“I know. But we might need to.”

“Damn.”

Rossi pulled Hotch closer, rocking almost imperceptibly. Out of nowhere, he remembered Morgan’s story at brunch. About J.J.. And a strange, sad lullaby whose words were old. Rossi closed his eyes. Afterwards, he wouldn’t know where he’d heard the tune or from whom. But it came when he needed it.

Hush-a-bye

Don’t you cry…

 

The melody was in a minor key…

 

Blacks and bays

Dapples and grays

All the pretty little horses.

 

J.J. was right; there was something haunting about it…

 

Bees and butterflies

Flitting ‘round his eyes

Poor little thing is crying

Mammy.

 

xxxxxxx

 

In the dark, hot cavern of his soul, a place carved by delirium, Hotch felt something change.

Through all the pain and hate burning into him, against all odds, something like a cool breeze whispered its way in. It was minor and strange and sadly beautiful.

Slowly, slowly, Hotch’s muscles began to relax.


	31. Sweet Lies

“He’s gone limp.”

Rossi felt the gradual change in Hotch’s muscles, the toned tension bleeding out.

Marty listened and felt and palpated. “I’m not sure. He’s either past the delirium, or completely exhausted. Maybe both.” The thermometer was brought out again.

102.5

Rossi didn’t even need to know the number. The doctor’s grin was a surer indicator of good news than any digital readout. Still, although the man looked hopeful, he didn’t have the blissfully relieved expression Rossi would have expected if this were the end of all their worries concerning Aaron. Marty confirmed his suspicion.

“He’s better. This is very encouraging.”

Rossi’s brows rose. “B-u-u-u-t…?”

“But he’s still not out of the woods.” When it didn’t sound as though more information would be forthcoming, Rossi pushed a little.

“So…if he’s still _in_ the woods, what exactly do the trees surrounding him look like?”

The doctor ducked his head, savoring the touch of humor in a room that had been so fraught with anxiety for hours. “The fever’s still high. Too high for him to sustain it for more than a couple of days.”

He rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble he hadn’t had a chance to shave off that morning. “We’ll just have to keep monitoring him. The fever might break and rise repeatedly. He could go on that way for several days. He’ll be miserable, but not in any real danger.” He sighed. “We’ll just have to stick with him and see.”

Rossi echoed the doctor’s weary sigh, pulling Hotch a little bit closer, both taking and giving comfort from the hug. “Well, at least he hasn’t coughed for a while.”

“Yeah. That.” The tone contained a subtext that made Dave look up. “Again, there are a couple of possibilities. Either the cough’s gone…he’s over it. Or, he’s just too tired, too depleted, to expend the energy necessary to clear his respiratory system.”

Marty’s expression was solemn. “That kind of exhaustion is often a precursor to pneumonia.”

Rossi cinched the limp body in even more tightly. Watching Aaron’s still face for any signs of waking, or any portents of his dreams, he resumed humming the mournful tune of J.J.’s lullaby.

The doctor’s faint smile was sad, filled with gentle teasing. “I thought you were the one who wouldn’t be caught dead singing into your Unit Chief’s ear.”

Rossi raised one brow and shrugged. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on making each note pitch perfect.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Hotch felt the soft, cool pull of a breeze.

It traveled across his body, bringing relief. But it wanted something, too. It wasn’t just giving of itself. He sensed there was a reciprocity involved.

It wanted him to follow it.

But he was so tired. He barely had the energy to breathe. His body felt drained, encased in an inch-thick, layer of lead.

_So leave your body behind…_

What little breath Hotch had, hitched in his chest. That suggestion hadn’t come from the pleasant, sweet presence of the breeze. It was something else… _from_ somewhere else. Calling to him. Entreating him. He could feel it gathering itself, becoming more and more importunate now that it knew it had his attention.

_It’s easy…I’ll show you how…_

It wasn’t a disembodied voice. Not exactly. It came from someplace that felt familiar; someplace nearby. Someplace that had always been available to him. But it was also a place he’d studiously avoided. There was something wrong about listening to it.

Small wings of panic began to beat deep inside Hotch.

_Leave the body behind…you can be so free…you have no idea…_

_But…_

_Shhhhhhh…Shhhhhh…No ‘but’s…just…let…go…_

 

xxxxxxx

 

Jack lay on his side. Disconsolate.

Even though he was better, he felt worse.

And even the soft, furry company of two large dogs couldn’t warm up the spot inside him that felt like a chip of ice. Hard and cold and jagged.

_Daddy’s sick because of me._

He was painfully aware that the monitor he’d been using to watch Daddy had been taken away. He didn’t question it. He knew why.

_Because I was bad. I made Daddy sick, so I can’t have him anymore._

Mudgie gave a low whine, nuzzling this small, human pup. It exuded a sorrowful scent that was very disturbing. Fudge insinuated her long body against the pup’s other side. Between them the two dogs settled down to their vigil.

With the intuitive, canine way that baffled all humans, they sensed a storm coming.

 

xxxxxx

 

After a while, during which Hotch remained calmly quiescent, the older men decided to take breaks, spelling each other in watching over him.

Rossi uncurled the now pliant body, laying it out full-length on the bed. He straightened, stretching out the kinks he’d developed; the result of holding the same position for hours.

“I’ll go check on Jack. Then, I’ll bring up some breakfast for us.” He tilted his head, giving Hotch a considering look. “Maybe some orange juice. Might be able to get a few sips into him.”

Marty nodded, taking a place at his patient’s side. “Maybe. I think he’s just worn out now. The next few hours should tell us more…whether the fever’s going to go into a spiking pattern or not. Whether his lungs’ll stay clear or not.” The look he gave Rossi was grave. “You heard what his son said, right? About blame?”

“Yeah. I did.” The accompanying sigh was deep with regret.

“Like father, like son.” The doctor shook his head. “Dave, I honestly thought Aaron was the only one we had to worry about.” He smoothed a damp strand of hair from Hotch’s forehead. “The boy’s too young to be taking blame for anything. How, on God’s green earth, did he pick up that ‘I’m not good enough unless I’m perfect’ attitude already?”

Rossi shrugged. “He’s a smart kid. Very perceptive. Sensitive. Worships Daddy. Watches Daddy. Emulates Daddy.”

Marty’s initial response was a semi-derisive snort. But when he turned back to his patient, wondering about the complexity hidden beneath the pale, chiseled features, his final verdict was soft. Almost a whisper.

“Like father, like son. And if we can’t help them, they’re both damned.”

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

Hotch was tempted.

The battles that life presented him just never seemed to get any easier. And he never seemed to get any better at fighting them. And with Jack in the picture, the stakes just kept getting higher in the face of his failure.

_Better off without you…_

He’d heard that before. From the mirror-people. He didn’t want to listen to them. Couldn’t help doing so…but didn’t want to. The only thing that had felt good, sounded good, in this place was in that melodic, cool breeze.

He lifted his nose, scenting for it…trying to decipher it, separate it from these other, denser currents eddying about him.

But it was gone. It had stopped.

In its place, a frisson of dark mirth shuddered over him.

_Lullabies are only sweet lies, dropped in the ears of those who cry…It was a lie…It’s gone now…no more tears…follow me…follow…follow…_

_But Jack…_

_Better off without you…_

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Rossi walked the distance to Jack’s room, heart growing heavier, sadder, with every step.

_If only we could pick and choose the traits that pass from one generation to the next._

He found it insufferable that the qualities of self-doubt and self-loathing instilled in Aaron by the vicious beast who sired him, should be passed on to a son whose father adored him, would give up everything, would sacrifice himself without hesitation, in the name of loving his son.

_Not fair. But then, when is life ever…?_

Turning the corner into Jack’s room, Rossi paused.

The child had dozed off, bracketed by Mudge and Fudge. As he stepped nearer, both dogs raised their heads, tensing. Rossi frowned.

“What it is boy? Everything okay?”

He ruffled the soft, palomino-gold ears, getting the distinct impression from both animals that they were on guard…that they would appreciate being left alone. _Please leave._ Rossi looked down at the boy. Not shamming. Definitely asleep.

He sighed. The discussion of guilt and blame and love would have to wait. He collected the dishes from the breakfast Marty had brought up and left.

Two pairs of strangely wise, canine eyes met over the body of the pup they were protecting. It was good the man had left the young one undisturbed.

Now things could take their natural, necessary course.

The dogs lowered their heads to their paws. And waited.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The breeze and its sweet music were gone.

Hotch saw no reason he shouldn’t let go, follow the call surrounding, cradling, tempting him.

_So easy…just…stop…let go…so…free…you’ll be…_

The heavy lead coating his body was seeping inward, surrounding his lungs, his heart. It was hard to keep breathing. It took too much effort. If he could just stop for a few minutes, it would feel so good.

He relaxed into the idea of absolute stillness. Yes, it _was_ easy. The voice hadn’t lied. Which meant maybe the lullaby had. He took a last breath and let it…go…

_Peace. Utter, profound peace._

_Daddy?_

Hotch’s newfound peace…

…shattered.


	32. The Path Home

Every fiber of Hotch’s being had been on the verge of…

…looking forward to…

…submitting to…

…that increasingly seductive voice.

He recognized it as an amalgam of the voices that had berated him all his life; that had turned him into the lesser creature that he was. But now…now it was offering him the chance to do something it would approve. And he needed that validation so badly. He was relaxing into the idea of…just…letting…go….

And then…that one word electrified him.

_Daddy?_

**_Jack_ ** _?!_

It took several beats for each to realize the general direction, the reality, of the other’s presence.

_Jack! What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here._

He wasn’t even sure where ‘here’ was, but he knew his son didn’t belong where he did. Jack was extraordinary. He was the one who was flawed beyond reclamation.

_Jack? Go home!_

A sense of quiet, childish sobbing almost broke what was left of Hotch’s heart.

_I’m sorry, Daddy…sorry…sorry…sorry…_

_Why? Buddy, why?_

_I love you ‘n I made you sick. Sorry…sorry…sorry…_

Hotch had been so tired, so defeated. But hearing the echo of his own sorrow, the chant that had been the soundtrack of his own childhood, in his son’s voice…Aaron felt a rage, a strength, flowing through him that was endless, boundless. Who _dared_ tell his son that he was responsible for Daddy’s illness? The wolf that crouched in the deepest part of his soul bared its teeth and growled, gathering itself to punish whoever _dared_ give his son such ideas.

 _You **didn’t** make me sick. Sick happens. It’s no one’s fault._ Hotch felt that internal growl growing. _Who told you it was your fault, Jack? **Who**?_

The boy didn’t have an answer. It was one of those ‘just ‘cause’ moments that weave through childhood when the vocabulary to explain oneself doesn’t yet exist. When things that just _are_ , can’t be traced to things that _were_. He didn’t know how to tell Daddy that blaming themselves is what Hotchners do. He saw it all the time. He heard it through his bedroom walls at night; Daddy’s secret sorrow. But not a secret from his son. Rather, a secret his son shared. Secretly.

When asked for elaboration, all Jack could do was sob his grief, and echo the one word that he could always feel resonating through his father. Even though they’d never discussed it; even though he didn’t understand it. He was…

… _sorry…sorry…sorry…_

Hotch’s anger gathered, grew molten.

The voice enticing him to a final, lasting rest was burned away, unable to withstand the savage ferocity of a father’s bone-deep determination to defend his child.

**_Who_ ** _, Jack? Who?_

_No one! Jus’ **is** …sorry…sorry…_

With a low, guttural growl, Hotch turned away from the dark peace that had seemed so enticing, so desirable. He pulled himself back from the brink, and turned toward the lost, wounded sound of his son.

 

xxxxxxx

 

While Rossi took a quick shower and threw together an impromptu breakfast composed of various a-la-Garcia dishes, Marty kept watch over Hotch.

Something disturbed him.

True, the man’s temperature had come down, and he’d stopped crying out, making those heartrending, whimpering noises. But the more the doctor observed him, the less he liked how still he’d become. His chest barely moved, an indication of the shallow kind of respiration that, if prolonged, was conducive to pneumonia.

When Rossi returned, Marty was still unsure. He had a worrisome suspicion that the fevered dreams might have been replaced by something still in a developmental stage, but potentially just as lethal. The frustrating thing was there was nothing medically evident. Nothing he could fasten onto that would clue him in on how to effectively treat… _whatever_ it was.

He was still mulling the matter over when Rossi placed a plate with a slice of salmon quiche and several savory sides before him.

“Thanks.” The doctor took a desultory bite, not fully appreciating the magic that was Garcia-in-the-kitchen. He glanced up at Rossi, interrupting the study of his patient. “How’s Jack?”

“Asleep. I’ll have a talk with him when he wakes up.”

Marty resumed his calculated regard of Hotch. “This one needs a talking-to as well.”

“More like an intervention.” Rossi felt his appetite fade away when faced with the problem of Aaron.

The doctor’s brows rose in consideration of what _did_ bear an unfortunate resemblance to dependence. “Addicted to his own past…That’s a new one.”

“If we follow that paradigm, we’re admitting he can’t ever fully recover.”

“When it comes to the past, to where we come from, and what formed us…can any of us fully recover?”

Rossi shrugged. “Guess not. So the best we can do is raise his awareness…give him something to work on overcoming for the rest of his life without any real hope of success?” He turned troubled eyes on his friend. “Do you think he needs that? Another burden that makes him think he’s…what was that phrase?... ‘a child of a lesser god?’”

Marty’s sigh was full of sad resignation. He set his plate down on the nightstand, thoughts of Aaron pushing out any hunger he might have felt. “No. He absolutely doesn’t need that. But that’s the hand that’s been dealt him. He has to play it out to the best of his ability.” A small smile ghosted over the doctor’s lips. “And I think we can agree that his abilities are…considerable.”

Rossi nodded. “And we’ll have to keep an eye on him. Make sure there’s no backsliding.” He glanced from Hotch’s still features to the doctor’s worried ones; the smile already faded back to grim reality. “What’s bothering you, Marty? There’s something more going on, isn’t there…?”

“I dunno. But, yeah, something’s not right.”

Both men studied the still form on the bed, scanning it from head to toe and back again. The doctor shook his head, puzzled.

“I don’t know what it is, but something’s just not what it should be.” He yawned, standing and arching some of the tension out of his back muscles. “I’m gonna go get washed up. Maybe I’m just tired; worrying about things that don’t exist. I dunno. I’ll be back.”

As he left the room to refresh himself as best he could, he couldn’t help another small smile.

Rossi had immediately moved to sit at Hotch’s shoulder. Glancing back, Marty saw the older agent lean over his unconscious friend. Trailing gentle fingers over the contours of the still face, Dave’s eyes were intent. Unthinking, he began to murmur soft, melodic words that came without effort from a place he didn’t understand, but accepted must be part of his own past.

_Maybe I wanted to sing this to my own son…the one lying beneath a headstone for almost as many years as Aaron’s been alive…Maybe J.J. just reminded me…_

 

Bees and butterflies

Flitting ‘round his eyes

Poor little thing is crying…

 

xxxxxx

 

The heat of fever had weakened Hotch.

But the heat of anger that someone, _anyone_ , should have misled his son into believing he was to blame for falling ill, poured a rabid strength into him that defied containment. Someone would pay for this, for putting such thoughts in Jack’s mind. But, as yet, he had no idea who.

Nor did he have an inkling in which direction to aim his rage.

In fact, he realized he didn’t know where he was…where _they_ were. He could feel Jack’s small, sorrowful presence, but there was no path leading away from wherever they were. Growling with frustration, Hotch cast about, questing for a sign, a scent…anything that would help him take his son from this place.

He became aware of the change in Jack first.

The crying eased. The sobs turned to sniffles. The breathing evened out. Something was soothing the child. Hotch’s relieved gratitude softened the burning edges of his fury…just enough to let in…

… a sound. Sweet. And minor. And hauntingly sad.

It unwound the anxiety binding his heart. His inner vision calmed, then cleared.

Lifting his head toward the melody, Hotch knew he could follow it out. When he cast about for Jack’s presence, he realized his son already had…

Taking a deep breath, Hotch followed.


	33. Deal

Rossi was caught off guard when Hotch’s body suddenly arched upward, the lungs pulling in a tremendous breath, filling to capacity with a ragged gasping sound.

And morphing into a cough.

“Ah, no. Not again.” He leaned over, cupping one hand around the left side of his friend’s ribs, hoping that, along with the bandaging, it was enough to support and protect. “C’mon, Aaron. Relax. Just settle down and breathe easy. C’mon…”

For his part, Hotch felt as though he’d rocketed back from wherever that misty, gray place had been, with a primal roar of parental rage. It was a bit discomfiting to realize he’d wheezed himself into awareness and was now trapped in a weakened body that Dave could hold down with the minimal effort of one hand. But there were more important things at stake than his ribs.

He needed reassurance that Jack was alright. He’d take a barrage of sledge hammers to the ribs if it would buy him the knowledge that his son was safe.

But this wasn’t an assailant. It was Dave. And there were no sledge hammers; just a large hand that was as intent on protecting him from pain and damage, as he was determined to do so for Jack. Grave, dark eyes looked into his own as the hand went from a steady, stabilizing grip to a gentle, massaging motion.

“Calm down, Aaron. You’re safe. Everything’s okay. Slow down your breathing. S-l-o-w down.”

He couldn’t explain it, but Dave’s touch always made him feel better; as though he mattered, as though he was more than just a tool to be used, or a weapon to be deployed in the ongoing battle against the ‘bad guys.’ There was something warm and caring about Rossi. Aaron saw his need for such kindness as another flaw in his own basic structure. But he couldn’t help being drawn to it. He tried to do what Rossi wanted. He slowed his breathing and stopped struggling. Gradually, the cough came under control, progressing into a series of embarrassingly ineffectual, squeaky hiccups.

“That’s right. Atta boy. S-l-o-w breaths.”

“Jack.” Hotch was alarmed at the sound of his own voice. Hoarse and raw, and pleading. Not the strong howl of alpha strength that had altered his destination in that other, gray place. “Jack,” he croaked.

“Jack’s fine. I checked on him. He’s asleep. Now how ‘bout we concentrate on you for a change?” The hand was still massaging, comforting. “Nice, even breaths, okay? Your son is safe. You’re safe. Just breathe, Aaron.”

Hotch’s compliance was reluctant. He couldn’t explain his need to see Jack until his breathing was more controlled. And he couldn’t extract himself from Rossi’s hands. He was too weak and Dave was too strong. The fastest route to Jack was to make himself better.

Or at least to appear better.

 

xxxxxx

 

Jack struggled up from where he’d been laying, hemmed in by two large, canine bodies.

“Daddy.” It was a muffled, sleepy demand.

He started to wriggle his way up and out. He didn’t care if Poppi and the doctor didn’t want him there. He had to go see Daddy. Had to be sure he was here…and not there…where the air was all gray and they couldn’t really see each other.

But something that felt like a small log, or a very large stick, thwarted his progress. Then another landed on his back, pinning him in place. He craned his neck around, trying to see what was happening.

“Mmmmffffrrrr…rrrrr…rrrrr.” Mudgie moaned through a cavernous yawn.

“Wwwrrrrrr…rrrrfffff.” Fudge replied, dropping her large head onto the pup’s shoulders, joining Mudge’s forelegs splayed across the pup’s back, keeping him in place.

When the big, wet noses began snuffling and pushing at him, Jack couldn’t help it. He burst into giggles. This pleased Mudgie and Fudge. Their tails thumped in tacit approval.

Well-nuzzled pups were always easier to handle. And this one should rest. It wasn’t time for him to leave the lair just yet.

 

xxxxxx

 

“Well…welcome back, Aaron.” Marty returned refreshed from his shower and extremely relieved to see Hotch’s eyes open, and his chest movement signifying more normal respiration.

He toweled at his still-damp, thinning hair as he moved to the bedside. “How do you feel?”

Hotch’s throat was so sore he would have resorted to sign language if he’d known it…charades if he’d been any good at parlor games. But he wanted them to think he was so improved he could either be left on his own, or be allowed to take a short walk in the hallway. Anything that would provide an opportunity for him to go in search of Jack.

“Great.” He rasped out the word, unable to keep from swallowing reflexively at the pain, resulting in the exchange of skeptical glances between the older men.

Marty’s lips thinned. _Dave said he had an extensive repertoire of ways to hide._

The doctor abandoned his towel, tossing it over the back of a chair, and rummaged deep into his little, black bag. Extracting a small penlight, he sat beside Hotch and with a firm hand under his patient’s chin, tipped his head back.

“Open up and say ‘ahhhh.’” The penlight was held in readiness, poised to reveal what the doctor was sure would be a raw, red throat. Possibly with the white markings of strep. It wasn’t uncommon with measles.

Hotch blinked. Rossi raised one brow.

“C’mon, son. Either let me see a nice, healthy set of tonsils…if you’ve still got yours…or admit you feel like hell.”

Hotch tried to muster his glare, hoping to bluff his way through, staving off any further examination. But things weren’t working out as envisioned. Just as he’d thought he was returning in a whirlwind of fury, which ended up being a pitiful coughing fit, now the Unit Chief found his glowering expression merely elicited suspicious head-shakes, and sighs.

“That’s what I thought.” Marty flicked the light off when his patient’s mouth remained resolutely closed. “Don’t try to lie about being sick, Aaron. It might work with some minor affliction, but not with the viral plague that’s currently working its way through you.”

Rossi shook his head, disappointed at the tactic. “Wha’d’you hope to accomplish, Aaron? You couldn’t go ten feet without falling over or passing out. And both you and Jack are still contagious for measles. You can’t leave.” Another sigh, half sympathy, half frustration, presaged his next words. “You need to learn to admit when you need help, and to take it when it’s offered. While we’ve got you here, as soon as you’re well enough to pay attention, we’re going to have a nice, long discussion about that…”

“…And some other things…,” interjected Marty.

Rossi nodded. “…And some other things.”

Hotch wavered. Clearly, his standard methods of concealment were defective, in disarray and disrepair. His hiding places were vanishing. Hotch felt emotionally naked. He hated it. He would have pulled into himself and burrowed into the bedding, if it had been just him. But Jack was involved. The echoes of that dreary, gray place where they’d met were still shivering through him.

And his son’s words. _…sorry…sorry…sorry…_

The memory brought back some of his protective, paternal anger. His brows drew together. His eyes narrowed.

“Jack. Now.” And then realization of his vulnerable, dependent position reasserted itself… “Please?”

Marty studied his patient’s face for a few minutes. “You haven’t even tried to look at him in that monitor that’s all set up for you, Aaron. Why not?”

Hotch could feel his eyes beginning to brim. He reminded himself of the doctor’s explanation of emotional instability when one was seriously ill. But he still hated the tear that spilled over. “Need to hold…Jack.” Each word hurt his increasingly raw throat.

Now both older men were subjecting Hotch to intense scrutiny. Rossi was the one to hit the nerve he was trying so hard to hide.

“Did you have a bad dream, Aaron?”

He couldn’t explain. Literally. Talking hurt too much. He would have felt foolish anyway, trying to make these seasoned experts in human nature understand that it hadn’t been a normal dream. It had felt like a place and a situation that embodied very real consequences. It was too much for one sick, worried man to handle.

All Aaron could do was look miserable and nod.

Marty closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his weary face. He glanced at Rossi, then back to Hotch. “If we bring you Jack, will you settle down? Let us look after you without feeling that you’re imposing on anyone?” Hotch nodded, a small gleam of hope coming into his eyes.

“And you’ll be willing to let us conduct a little intervention of sorts?”

A touch of alarm joined the gleam of hope. But Hotch nodded again. Anything for Jack.

Marty placed a hand on his patient’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze; almost an apology for what had just transpired, and could qualify as emotional blackmail.

“Alright, son. Dave, would you be kind enough to get Jack? _If_ he’s awake?”

 

xxxxxx

 

Down the hall, Jack had dozed off under the immobility imposed by his two, large, furry companions.

When the deal had been struck; when Hotch had agreed to subject himself to whatever was meant by ‘intervention,’ and Rossi was on his way, Mudgie lumbered to his feet, freeing the pup and awakening him.

As Rossi entered the room, Mudge and Fudge jostled their way out, continuing down the hallway, trotting in tandem, tails proudly upright. Rossi spared an amused glance for the pair. They looked for all the world as though they’d just completed a successful business transaction.


	34. The Parent Puzzle

While Rossi went to get Jack, the doctor helped Hotch to the bathroom, noting his patient’s weak, but determined progress.

_That bout with fever took a lot out of him. I’m betting all the attendant ills associated with measles took the opportunity to come home to roost with renewed vigor._

Marty kept quiet, but enumerated the maladies in his own mind. _Strep throat. Ear ache. Muscle aches. Fatigue._ He sighed, watching Hotch struggle to attend to his own personal hygiene. _And I bet he won’t complain; will even deny his symptoms. Hiding when there’s no need. Hiding because it’s his first response, ingrained by an uncertain, cruel childhood. And it seems adulthood hasn’t been much kinder._

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

Hotch ran out of energy quickly. He’d only wanted to clean up a little; didn’t want to present too frightening an aspect to Jack. The rash was okay. It was their passport to brotherhood; the entrée into being a Raspberry Leopard. It was the rest that bothered him.

Although he’d tried to avoid looking in the mirror…ever since the dreams had claimed him, he dreaded what might appear over the shoulder of his own reflection…the quick glance he’d taken showed him a gaunt, attenuated face. Like a famished spectre. Not the impression he wanted to give a child who, if the dreams could be believed, blamed himself for Daddy’s illness.

And that was the first thing he needed to determine. _Was_ it just a dream? Would Jack have any recollection? Hotch was torn. A little proof would go a long way to bolstering his confidence in his own mental health and perceptions. But he hated…hated with a venomous rage…that his son might have been in that cold, heartless place. And he still needed to get to the root of why the child was taking on blame.

_Who told him that?_

As he did his best to shave with a shaking hand, he came to the reluctant conclusion that the culprit had to be either Dave or Marty. In which case he was sure it hadn’t been intentional. More likely a stray comment meant for adult ears and misinterpreted by Jack’s.

_Probably said I caught it from him, or something about how when you have kids, you’re exposed to more germs._

Hotch finished shaving and leaned against the sink. It had taken all the energy he could spare, but it was worth it. He was usually a very fastidious man, taking his grooming seriously. Even if he looked a bit skeletal, being clean-shaven made him feel better; more in control.

A wave of dizziness washed over him. Hanging his head, he closed his eyes, mutely waiting for it to pass. When the hand reached around from behind him, pressing against his chest, Hotch’s heart almost stopped. It was exactly like his nightmares; the hand presaging an encounter with humiliation, hate, horror. But this time the voice was kind, the touch gentle.

“Aaron, are you alright?” Marty’s words were soft, full of genuine concern.

Hotch nodded, sparing his sore throat the agony of vocalizing. But the doctor’s hand had felt the sudden increase in heart rate. He gave his patient a moment to gather himself before continuing.

“Jack’ll be here any minute. Let’s get you back to bed.” Again Hotch nodded, hoping his lapse into momentary terror hadn’t been noticed. It was a vain hope. The doctor’s arm circled Hotch’s waist, supporting without being too intrusive. He understood a patient’s need to maintain dignity, the illusion of accepting rather than needing help. Matching his pace to the agent’s, Marty accompanied Hotch to his bed. Halfway there, the doctor spoke up.

“You know, Aaron, you can talk to me about anything. I’ve been around a lot longer than you have. And, although I know you’ve seen more than your share, there’s nothing you can tell me that’ll shock me.” He glanced at the serious face, studiously keeping its eyes trained on the floor, marking each step. “Nothing’ll shock me, son….Not even your dreams.”

He felt the falter in Hotch’s step. _Thought so. Those nightmares Dave witnessed; they’re not just from fever. They’re subconscious issues working their way to the surface. We’ll have to add them to our agenda: Things To Discuss With Aaron._

At the bed, Marty took hold of Hotch’s waist, his thumbs resting against the man’s back. He’d intended to help him up, lifting ever so slightly. But when his fingers tightened, the wince of pain his patient gave couldn’t be ignored.

“What was that?” Sharp, medically adroit eyes subjected Hotch’s torso to professional scrutiny.

The agent shook his head, emitting a squeak that was all the voice he could produce, and looking heartily ashamed of sounding like a mouse. He tried to crawl into the bed, but Marty wouldn’t let him.

“Hang on, son. After all you’ve been through, I’m not about to let something slip through the cracks when you’re finally on the home stretch.”

Shoulders drooping, Hotch stood still while the doctor’s fingers probed around his spine. His compliance was more the result of resignation than willing obedience. Jack was coming. He was already concerned about his lack of vocal ability; he didn’t want the boy to have the added unpleasantness of seeing his father being examined like a faulty warhorse. He willed Marty to hurry.

Finally, the doctor patted Hotch’s back. “It’s muscular. Nothing to worry about. ‘Though I’m sure it doesn’t feel like ‘nothing.’” He kept his touch light as he helped the agent clamber into bed. “I think it’s the combined effect of that reduced level of liquids we discussed, that makes your muscles ache and malfunction, plus too much coughing, plus just enough laughter the other day to underscore that it’s not an activity you engage in with any degree of regularity.”

Hotch caught the implied criticism.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy merriment. It was that so little opportunity for it existed, as far as he was concerned, in the world in general. But one of those rare opportunities was headed his way now. He could hear Jack’s piping voice in the hall, playing counterpoint to Rossi’s deeper rumble.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Jack was having a hard time understanding his rapidly changing situation.

He _knew_ he was the one who’d made Daddy sick.

They’d explained at school how germs were passed from person to person. In Jack’s advanced class, they’d even done experiments with petri dishes and cotton swabs that showed how a little bit of germs could grow into a whole bunch of germs. And since the measles had shown up on him first, he _knew_ he’d passed the spots and everything else to Daddy.

But then they’d let him spend almost a whole day with his father. It had been so much fun, he’d almost wished they could be sick together forever. And when Daddy had done the leopard roar, initiating him into their very own, special tribe, he’d been so proud and his heart had swelled with so much love, it almost hurt.

That had felt like a reward. It didn’t make any sense to be given such a gift in exchange for making his father ill.

That’s why, when he realized his Bat-Monitor had been taken away, he figured they must have remembered what a bad thing he’d done. The reward had been a mistake. To make up for it, they’d taken away his ability to see Daddy. He’d been left in a dark, lonely room. Mudgie was there. But no Daddy. No Spotted Raspberry Leopard Chief. Not even his image.

Jack didn’t object. He knew he deserved the punishment. The other had been a mistake.

But now Poppi was taking him to _see_ Daddy…to _be_ with him…to be able to touch him and cuddle him again. It didn’t make any sense. But caught up in the bubbling, elated joy…the expectation of being able to bury himself in the wonderful, strong, beautiful, perfect man who was his father made it impossible for Jack’s brain to follow any trail of logic.

But Jack Hotchner knew one thing: he wasn’t going to alert them to the fact that it must be another mistake; that he knew they were worried about Daddy and it was all because he’d made beautiful, perfect, Chief Leopard Daddy sick.

No. Jack was going to keep it to himself and hope no one noticed. And even if he didn’t deserve it, he was going to store up every scent and touch and sight and sound, and build his own image of Daddy since they’d taken away the Bat-one. He’d work at it.

Because when you did bad things, even if you didn’t mean to; even if they just happened, because that’s the kind of boy you are…somebody might realize how awful you really were. And then you might never get to see your Daddy again.

After all, that’s what had happened with Mommy.

 

 

 


	35. Operation Unstick the Hamster Wheel

Rossi didn’t make it to the bed with Jack in his arms.

Several feet away from their destination, the child couldn’t stand it anymore. He saw Daddy reaching toward him and, launching himself from Rossi’s hip…

…was caught in the strong, safe arms he adored.

Hotch’s voice had already deserted him, falling prey to laryngitis, but even if that hadn’t been the case, he would have had no words for the moment. Everything worth fighting for, worth living for, was embodied in his son; the one thing Hotch felt he’d gotten right in his whole sorry existence.

_Sorry._

It reminded him of the dream-place, of Jack taking undeserved blame to himself. And of the white-hot rage that had propelled Hotch back so he could rend and tear whoever had put such unworthy thoughts in his son’s mind. But the tremendous power of anger in that place of smoke and mirrors didn’t translate once he was back in the waking world. The boundless strength he’d felt, the Papa-wolf alter-ego that made him dangerous and confrontational…faded…diminished to human proportions in the realm of ordinary reality.

Hotch felt impotent, weak. He clutched his son to himself and mourned his inability to carry the perceived power he’d had from one world into the other.

_Sorry, son…sorry. I should protect you better._

So Hotch did what he could.

He lifted his head from nuzzling Jack’s hair and glared indiscriminately around at the two older men. He couldn’t believe they’d say or do anything to harm his son. Whatever occurred…if _anything_ occurred; he was still mindful that this might all have been a dream…must have been unintentional. Nevertheless, the issue must be addressed.

Watching the Hotchner reunion with fond expressions, Dave and Marty saw the incipient anger deep in Aaron’s eyes. They exchanged baffled looks.

“You do something to tick him off?” The only change Rossi could see since he’d gone to fetch Jack, was that Hotch had shaved. On the face of it, not cause for the irate expression the man was showing them.

Marty shook his head. “No…not that I know of.” He scratched his chin, running over the brief events of the day so far. “No. Nothing. Maybe he wants us to leave…give them some private time?”

Caught up in the bliss of hugging Daddy, unaware of the emotional currents eddying around him, Jack pulled back, the better to see his father’s face.

“Raspberry Leopard, Daddy! Do it! Do the Leopard roar!”

Distracted from delivering the only reprimand of which he was currently capable, Hotch bent his neck, looking down at the hopeful grin and shining eyes of his son. He gathered himself for the effort, tensing his diaphragm, lengthening his spine in anticipation of making a mighty sound.

It was difficult to gage who was more disappointed, father or child, when all that came out was a squeak. Granted, a baritone squeak, but it was not the sound of a Leopard Chief. More that of something the Leopards would stalk and disable with a single swipe of their Raspberry paws.

Rossi felt his impulse to laugh was inappropriate. He covered his smile with one hand. Marty disguised the same reaction by bending down and rummaging about in his black bag. When he straightened, he was once again the consummate, the serious, medical professional.

“Here, Aaron. Try some of this.” In the doctor’s extended hand was a bottle of Chloraseptic spray. “It won’t give you your voice back, but it should help with the pain.” His expression was regretful. “The only way to get the voice back is to stop trying to use it, I’m afraid. Give the vocal cords a chance to rest.”

Hotch’s arms were busy holding his son close. It was Jack who reached out to accept the doctor’s offering. With the dignity and skepticism of a seasoned elder, the boy inspected the label, overflowing with words beyond his five-year-old vocabulary.

“This’ll help Daddy?”

Marty nodded, trying to match the gravity of the child’s tone. “With the pain. But he needs rest, too. And he needs to eat.” He continued, hoping to ease some of the disappointment due to the failure to roar. “He won’t be able to talk for a little while, but you can stay with him for now and help him feel better.”

Jack nodded, fingering the bottle’s spray mechanism that was too big for his small hands.

“Okay.” He turned mournful eyes on Poppi and Dr. Palmer. “My fault Daddy’s sick.”

It was just as disturbing as the first time they’d heard it.

What was so much worse this time was the smoldering rage in Hotch’s eyes as he stared at the older men in mute accusation.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi was the first to click to the inner workings of his Unit Chief’s mind.

“Oh, God.” He spoke _sotto voce_ for Marty’s ear only. “He thinks we told Jack, or said something to make him think that all this…the measles...all of it…is his fault.”

The doctor’s head snapped up, returning Hotch’s glare with a sharp, piercing look of his own. “Is that right, son? You think this child takes his cues from _us_?”

Hotch continued to glower, pulling Jack in tighter, closer, daring anyone to inflict harm on the son in the presence of the father.

Stepping forward, Marty gave a deep, frustrated sigh. “Jack…” Gentle fingers under his chin raised the boy’s eyes upward. “Jack…you didn’t make your Daddy sick. I’m a doctor. I know these things better than anyone.” He could see the desire to believe shimmering deep within the pools of dark brown. “A mean, old virus made both you and your Daddy sick.” His glance flashed up at Hotch. “And I’m beginning to think it went after the two of you together because you both need time to talk and figure some things out.”

He released Jack’s chin, taking hold of Hotch’s in a slightly rougher grip. “Aaron, I took an oath when I became a doctor. I’ve spent a lifetime helping wherever I could, as much as I could. And I’ve never, ever wished suffering on anyone.” He narrowed his eyes to match the somewhat fading glare of his patient’s. “But right now I’m glad you lost your voice. You need to listen, and you need to hear.”

Shaking his head, Marty moved back a few paces, taking in the picture presented by man and child. Both Hotchners were huddled close. Partly in reaction to the unaccustomed severity of the doctor’s words. Partly because they just couldn’t get enough of each other.

 _Anger, guilt, fault, blame…_ Marty’s perceptive eyes were experienced in the reading of the human animal, rivaling even a profiler’s skill. His lips thinned, then gradually relaxed. _But there’s so much love here…an almost desperate amount. Maybe…just maybe…it’s enough. Maybe…just maybe…they can use it to resolve all their issues._

Rossi had been watching from the sidelines, alternating between wanting to step in and comfort Aaron, and wanting to shake him until what he envisioned as the little hamster wheel inside his friend’s stubborn head unstuck itself, allowing him to see what was so glaringly obvious to everyone else.

But he refrained from either impulse, opting for a more practical activity. “I’m going downstairs to put together some food for these two.” He headed toward the door, pausing outside to hear Marty’s final words.

“Jack, the other day I told you that you could stay with you father as long as you kept him eating and drinking, remember?” After the requisite head-nod of acknowledgment, the doctor continued. “The rules are the same today…with one little addition.” Both sets of dark, Hotchner eyes were studying him, curious about the new condition of their staying together. “Today, I want you to talk to him. About everything. I want you to think of feelings. Tell him what you love the most, hate the most; what scares you the most; what makes you angry the most; what you wish you could change the most; what you want the most.

“And don’t hold back. Even if you think it’ll make him sad. I guarantee you, Jack, it’s the medicine both of you need most. Promise?”

“ ‘Kay.” The boy looked uncertain, but Marty had a feeling Hotchners, no matter how small, kept their promises.

He ruffled the child’s hair with an affectionate hand. After a moments consideration, he ruffled Hotch’s, too.


	36. Fox Hunt

As Marty’s and Rossi’s footsteps retreated down the hall, Hotch couldn’t help his spreading grin. He beamed down at the boy in his arms, still holding the bottle of spray the doctor had given him. Jack’s smile lit up his face in turn, growing just as Hotch’s own widened, keeping pace with Daddy.

Alone, father and son stared at each other, searching for answers to the same question… _Are you alright? Really alright?_

Hotch knew he wasn’t picking up on things as quickly as he would under normal circumstances. Illness was affecting his grasp of things logical versus things dreamed, and things feverish. But Marty’s diatribe echoed in his mind. Especially one line: ‘ _You think this child takes his cues from **us**?’_

It was hard to focus. All he wanted to do with Jack so close was revel in his son’s presence. But as he watched his own smile, his own expressions mirrored, mimicked, on the worshipful face turned up to him, Hotch began to wonder…

 

xxxxxx

 

Down in the kitchen, Rossi was shaking his head in appreciative awe as he studied Garcia’s schematic for the provisions she’d left. Consulting the printout was something he did more frequently than necessary. It dumbfounded him that she had gone to so much trouble on his and the Hotchners behalves.

Not only was everything five-star-gourmet quality, but she’d divined exactly what would appeal to the appetites involved. Her food was age appropriate, as well as stage-of-recovery appropriate.

He glanced to where Marty was crouched down, rubbing Fudge’s belly as Mudgie looked on, emitting a wistful, jealous whine every third rub or so.

“How do grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup sound to you, Marty?”

The doctor  finished with Fudge and gave Mudge’s head a conciliatory pat, groaning as he straightened up. “Sounds good. I kind of liked that when I was a kid and got sick. Comfort food.”

“Ahhhhh…but this is _more_ than the sandwiches of your memory. So much more.”

Marty grinned, waiting for elaboration. Garcia’s gifts had been a source of humor and amazement that helped leaven the otherwise dour, sickroom atmosphere. He raised his brows at Rossi, inviting explanation. Rossi obliged.

“There are two containers with grilled cheese sandwiches. For adults, she made Texas toast and used a combination of Havarti, Muenster, and Gruyere.”

“My God.” The doctor placed a hand on his chest. “I can feel my left ventricle slamming closed just thinking about it…but…ohhhhh…what a way to go…”

“She used regular toast and sliced American cheese for the kiddy version. And…” Rossi’s lips quirked up at one side. “…the cream of tomato soup for us older folks includes onions, basil and garlic. Just pureed, creamed tomatoes for the youngsters.” He tilted his head to one side, again surveying the diagram. “And she arranged everything so those are pretty easy to get to. We only have to dig back one layer. She kept most of the sweets up front.”

Rossi opened the fridge, checking the chart, getting his bearings before disturbing any of the Wall of Food before him. Marty joined him, paying homage to the culinary feat of engineering.

“You know, we should take that young lady to the finest dinner your money can buy when this is over.”

“ _My_ money…” Rossi shot a sidelong glance at his friend.

“Well, I’m just a simple, country doctor. You’re the famous author and man of intrigue.”

The agent chuckled, but a considering look came over him as he extracted the electric blue Tupperware labeled GRILLED CHEESE - KIDS!

“What are you thinking, Dave?” Marty glimpsed the fleeting sparkle in his friend’s eyes as he explored the cupboards for bowls and plates.

“That we _should_ take Penelope out.” Rossi’s smile grew sly. “And I _can_ afford the best. Wha’d’ya say to splitting the bill for a fine Italian meal, if I spring for the transportation?”

The doctor frowned. “Transportation?”

“Well…the finest dinner my money can buy would be a little place I know on a side street of a lovely village…” He couldn’t reign in his grin any more. “…in Tuscany.”

Silence. A frozen stare from his old war buddy.

“You’re serious.”

Rossi nodded, warming to the concept. “Yeah. A long weekend. A flight on Alitalia out of New York.” He turned a mischievous grin on his co-conspirator. “She’ll never know what hit her.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch had relieved Jack of the bottle of Chloraseptic. He’d sniffed at it, but his nose was still too congested to tell him much. His first inclination was to avoid painkillers, so he deposited it on the nightstand without using it. Jack watched every move, sniff, and grimace.

 _Damn. He **is** watching me like a hawk._ A frisson of resentment passed through Hotch. He couldn’t tell if the doctor’s words were making him hyper-aware, or if his son really was studying him for clues and cues. It was impacting his pure enjoyment of the boy’s company.

He wished he could talk. There were so many things he wanted to ask; so much he wanted to explain. But his attempt once again resulted in an abortive non-Leopard squeak.

Frustrated, Hotch leaned back against the mound of pillows, pulling Jack tighter against his chest. Closing his eyes, he buried his nose in the boy’s hair, trying to circumvent the congestion and breathe in the scent that eased his heart and made everything else in the world of lesser importance.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Upon Rossi’s advice, it was decided to include Hotch in Garcia’s menu for –KIDS! At the best of times, the Unit Chief’s stomach was sensitive. The more sophisticated ingredients in the adult versions of grilled cheese and soup might be more irritating than savory.

When the tray had been prepared with additional snacks intended to tempt a flagging appetite, the two old friends paused, glancing toward the staircase and then to each other.

“Jack’s only five. You think he can follow through on his own? Talk to Aaron the way you told him to?”

Marty’s eyes dropped as he gave some serious consideration to the likelihood of a child who idolized his father, stepping out of his comfort zone to address very adult concerns. He shook his head.

“He means well. And I have a feeling those two regard promises as near-sacred trusts…but…” He sighed. “No. I don’t think the boy’ll be able to stay on track. Especially if he sees it’s hurting his Daddy.”

“Maybe one of us should…facilitate?” Rossi saw the doctor come to the same conclusion he already had.

“Yeah.” Marty grinned. “I guess I’m already the ‘bad cop,’ so it’ll have to be you. You know them better than I do anyway.” He looked over to where Mudge and Fudge were watching the tray with intently hopeful eyes. “I’ll just take the dogs for a walk…have a look at this ritzy neighborhood you managed to worm you way into.”

Rossi nodded, picking up the heavily laden tray. “Well, take your phone. They see someone as disreputable looking as you wandering the streets, the cops might show up. I’d hate to have to make bail for you. Just really hate to. Waste of money.” A gusty sigh punctuated the regret for funds misspent.

Marty nodded, emitting his own dramatic sigh for the injustice of an unappreciative world that valued authors over broken-down doctors. But as Rossi backed his way out of the kitchen, taking care not to slosh tomato soup, the doctor’s voice turned serious.

“Dave, don’t go easy on him. You know his tactics; how he hides. Don’t let him.”

Rossi paused, unsmiling. “I know. Believe me, Marty…I know.” His eyes met his friend’s with unguarded honesty. “I don’t know where this might lead, but I think it’s been a long time coming. If I have to, I’ll make up some unbreakable, Leopard Tribe oath and invoke it.” He pushed the rest of the way past the door. “Or maybe I’ll just sit on him. Squash him into submission.”

Marty could hear Rossi continue as he made his way upstairs, almost talking to himself. “Need to check in with the team. Could get Morgan to squash him, too. And Prentiss. Yeah.  That’d do it. A team-squash.”

Marty smiled as he snapped leashes on two dogs eager to be taken out. He had a feeling an old dog was about to pull the fox from his burrow and expose him to daylight.

He almost felt sorry for the fox.


	37. Words As Keen As Blades

Rossi thought he detected a flicker of relief in Hotch’s eyes when the person delivering their meal wasn’t Marty. The gruff, old doctor had touched a nerve. Seeing Rossi, Hotch looked as though he thought he was getting away with something. There was a smug, triumphant air about him.

_Fox is feeling safe in his burrow again._

The older agent hid his amusement. As much as he loved Aaron, he wasn’t going to go soft and let him sneak his way around what was coming. He also realized he’d be walking a fine line. One that went hard on Hotch, but took into account the presence of his son. Rossi decided he was glad the man had no voice. There would be no arguing, no overt conflict. It would be more conducive to the child expressing himself honestly, without reservation.

His strategy was to go gently at first. Lead Jack. Let the boy open up and hope an echoing openness would show itself in Aaron.

Rossi set the tray down on a dresser and glanced at the Hotchners, big and little. “Okay, you two. Time to eat, so un-snuggle and let’s get you set up.” He had decided it would be best to get some food into the Unit Chief before confrontation bathed his stomach in acid, robbing him of his appetite. The man had a gaunt, attenuated look that wouldn’t go away without some solid weight gain. Every meal they managed to get into him was a small victory.

Jack bounced to the side of the large bed. The nightstand would serve as his table. The only item that needed stability was the bowl of tomato soup. Rossi settled the child with soup at the ready and a sandwich in hand. He unloaded the tray’s extra snacks and positioned it across the blanket over Hotch’s thighs, leaving two sandwiches and the soup on it.

“You two know the rules.” He gave Jack a mock-severe look. “Daddy has to eat as much as he can. Then I’ll help you talk to him…” He couldn’t refrain from casting a sympathetic look Hotch’s way. “… ‘cause he needs some help talking right now. Got it?”

Jack nodded with blissful enthusiasm, happy to be in Daddy’s company, no matter what the conditions. Rossi was pleased to see Hotch’s expression was relaxed and happy, too. He put a spoon into the man’s hand. “Eat up, Aaron. Set your son a good example.”

He touched the lean cheek with a fatherly gesture of affection before backing off. The dark eyes flicked up, making the older agent wonder if Hotch suspected what was coming. But it was only for a second. Then he was concentrating on his meal.

Rossi had opted to wait for his lunch, planning to sit down with Marty later and go over the particulars of this intervention. He sat back and watched, wondering where the day would end, hoping it would provide healing knowledge, rather than wounds.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“So, Jack…” Rossi had cleared utensils and dishes off to the top of a dresser. It was time for the real work to start.

“Poppi!” The boy had bounced back to cuddle up against Hotch’s side. Happiness was an almost palpable quality cascading off him. Both adults couldn’t help grinning in response.

Rossi drew a chair closer to the bed. Leaning forward, he smiled at Jack. “Dr. Palmer wanted you to talk to Daddy. He’s away so much, this is kind of a gift to have him here.” He glanced up at Hotch, seeing adoration glowing in the man’s eyes. “This is a perfect opportunity for you to let him in on all the things you’ve been saving up, but maybe sometimes forget to tell him?”

“ ‘Kay.” A shadow had passed over the ebullient joy. Rossi couldn’t tell if it was because the boy didn’t understand what sorts of things he was supposed to talk about, or if he understood _too_ well and wasn’t looking forward to revealing some of his thoughts.

 _That’s not good. He’s too young to have started thinking about hiding things, keeping secrets._ Rossi swallowed. _Oh, God, Aaron. For a man who keeps everything locked inside, your son has already picked up on too much._

“Dr. Palmer asked you to talk about the things you feel most, Jack. The big things that make you most happy and maybe make you most sad. So let’s start with the good stuff.” Rossi beamed an encouraging smile at the child. “What makes you happier than happy? What do you really, truly love?”

“Daddy!” Hotch’s son pushed himself upward, using his father’s body to climb high enough to throw his arms around the man’s neck. The maneuver earned a reciprocal hug and a noisy, snuffling nuzzle from Hotch. Without words, he made it clear he returned the sentiment a hundredfold.

Rossi nodded. “Your Daddy’s a wonderful, brave, good man. I love him, too.” He felt Hotch’s eyes on him, but he didn’t want to break the connection with Jack. He wanted the boy to feel accepted and supported even when talking about the not-so-nice things. And he wanted to bring them up with Daddy at the forefront of Jack’s mind. His voice softened, inviting confidences, creating a safe place to reveal whatever darkness might linger in a five-year-old’s soul.

“What makes you sad, Jack? What bothers you that you wish was different?” He could feel a change in Hotch’s regard; a bristling quality. The fox wasn’t pleased that his cub was being subjected to the profiler’s interrogation tactics geared toward children. Rossi ignored him, keeping his compassionate gaze focused on Jack.

“When I’m bad.”

Hotch’s arms tightened around his son.

Rossi swallowed. “When do you think you’re bad?”

“When I make Daddy sad.”

Hotch abandoned all pretense of relaxation. He sat straighter, turning his son around to face him. Words weren’t necessary; the man’s face expressed shocked denial. Rossi didn’t need to intervene. Jack was so adept at reading his father, he could interpret the voiceless attempt at communication.

“I _do_ make you sad, Daddy.” The boy continued on with an adult sort of grimness that sent a shiver of concern up Rossi’s spine.

Hotch shook his head. Crushing his son close, he closed his eyes and tried to bring his suddenly ragged respiration under control.

“Jack…Jack…” Rossi stood up. Reaching over, he pried Hotch’s son away from him. “Aaron…let me. Please.” The father looked up with liquid eyes, but, in a demonstration of trust and a mute plea for help, loosened his grip. Rossi pulled Jack to the edge of the bed and sat beside him, brushing his hair into place, matching his grave look.

“Jack, there’s a big difference between making someone sad, and having someone love you so much it hurts. A _big_ difference.” He paused to let the concept gain a foothold. “Your Daddy _does_ get sad sometimes, but it doesn’t have anything to do with you. Because the hurt you get from loving someone as much as he loves you is a joyful kind of pain. He wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Jack glanced back at his father’s face. Hotch nodded, a desperate, pleading look confirming Rossi’s explanation; begging his son to understand and accept. But Jack’s demeanor didn’t lighten. He turned back to his Poppi.

“Daddy’s sad because Mommy’s gone.” The conviction in the young voice was total. No one would persuade the boy otherwise.

“Yes.” Rossi saw no reason to deny it. He knew how much Hotch’s heart had been invested in Haley; how he’d thought they’d be together for the rest of their lives….And that those lives would be so much longer.

“Mommy’s gone because of me.”

The words were so soft, but they cut into Hotch’s flesh as surely as Foyet’s blade once had. Only they hurt far more. Rossi stared, shocked at something he hadn’t expected in this planned excursion into the Hotchner’s emotional landscape. He spared a glance for Hotch, seeing the horror dark within his friend’s eyes. Gathering himself, he continued down a path that, once begun, had to be followed to its conclusion.

“Jack, Jack…A bad man took your Mommy away. It had nothing to do with you. Nothing at all.” The words had no impact. “Why do you think that, Jack?”

The head was bowed. Whether in shame or acceptance of guilt, Rossi couldn’t tell. But neither boded well.

“Daddy said so.”

Despite laryngitis, Hotch’s gasp was deep, audible, choking.

Rossi put a gentle hand on the child’s back. “You must have misunderstood, Jack. Your Daddy doesn’t think that. He wouldn’t have said that.”

“He did.” Hotch’s son looked up, eyes full of earnest belief. “When we said goodbye to Mommy.”

Hotch’s mind cast back to Haley’s funeral with frantic, panicked speed. He didn’t recall his exact words. He’d been working from notecards. But he _did_ know that he’d said Haley wasn’t with them anymore because of her fierce, joyous love for Jack. The connection flared into his mind, and into his gut, wrenching a sob from him.

While Rossi watched in stunned denial, Jack clambered back to his father’s side. As Hotch tried to smother a second sob, his stomach muscles contracted. Unconsciously, his hand traveled up his side to his ribs, where the movement made them ache. But Jack had beat him to it.

He glanced down at the small hand of his son, resting gently over the precise point of damage. Hotch looked into the younger version of his own eyes, regarding him with the calm acceptance of the condemned who feel they deserve their sentence.

Jack patted his father.

“ ‘S’okay, Daddy. I know where you hurt.”


	38. Pushing Back the Darkness

Marty walked the dogs, returning to Rossi’s mansion to find his host and the Hotchners still in session.

He debated diving into the delectable –ADULTS! grilled cheese sandwiches Garcia had provided, but thought he’d rather wait and eat with Dave. After idling about downstairs, he decided he’d make an unobtrusive way up to his room, hoping to retrieve a sweater in deference to the day’s temperature having taken a dive toward the cooler side.

Marty intended to get past Hotch’s bedroom door without attracting any notice. To that end, he walked with soft, furtive steps. He needn’t have bothered. The occupants of the room were so deeply entrenched in a situation, the intensity of which could be felt all the way out to the hallway, they wouldn’t have noticed a pack of elephants wearing spurs, doing a two-step on their way past.

Marty paused; curious, yet loathe to interrupt. Unable to hear distinct words, he continued to his room. But once there, his eye fell on the monitor he’d taken from Jack, intending to shield the boy from his father’s rough road through illness. He toyed with the idea of eavesdropping via Bat-Cam, weighing the possible merits versus the definite lack of ethics in doing so.

Lips thinned, the doctor rested his hand on the monitor’s rim. He’d turned the video and sound off, but… _All it would take is the flip of a switch…maybe a little volume adjustment…and maybe the camera isn’t even focused in the right direction anymore…_

But what finally decided him was… _Things felt tense…maybe they need help…_ He gave himself a wry, little shake of his head. _Yeah, yeah…and it’ll shorten the war by years and save countless lives. Be honest: it’s just an excuse to be a nosy, old man._

Marty flipped on the monitor and turned up the sound.

All he could see was a blurry, too-close image of a plate with a bit of what looked like melted cheese spotting the edge. But he could hear well enough.

 

xxxxx

 

Jack patted his father’s ribs with the same delicacy he would those of a baby bird. Feather-light and gentle was his touch. And it lanced clear through to Hotch’s heart.

“I know you hurt, Daddy. I know.”

Straining to find his voice, Hotch could only produce a strangled, creaking noise. He turned tortured eyes on Rossi, pleading for him to take this darkness away from his son. It burned into him that Jack’s actions and words, so full of self-recrimination, were directly traceable to his own.

He’d labored over the eulogy for Haley, struggling to verbalize through the obstacle of his own broken grief. He’d thought the words he’d chosen were deep and true, reflecting the love she’d brought into his life, the love that manifested itself in Jack. He’d meant to pay homage to a love that was almost frightening in its intensity; not attribute blame.

_Is this something **else** Foyet’s going to steal from me? My son’s capacity for joy?_

Hotch was startled out of his reverie by Rossi’s hand covering Jack’s; both of them warming his chronically injured side. He glanced up to see the older agent studying him, reading him with the disconcerting accuracy of a professional as well as a friend. Dave maintained eye contact, but he spoke for Jack’s benefit.

“Yes. Your Daddy does hurt. In different ways, for different injuries.” Rossi increased the pressure of his hand over the boy’s, flattening it, letting him feel the rhythm of his father’s breathing.

“ _This_ injury needs warmth and time, and to be left alone, for it to feel better.” He twined his fingers through Jack’s,  pulling his hand away from the sore spot. “It’ll probably be with Daddy for the rest of his life.” Jack looked up into his Poppi’s eyes with concern.

“It won’t go away?”

Rossi returned the child’s grave regard, shaking his head. “Probably not. But that’s okay. It’s not a big hurt. Your Daddy’s brave and strong, and he knows how to ignore the little hurts like this.”

Jack looked to his father for confirmation. Hotch nodded and then shrugged, hoping to show his son that such things really didn’t matter. That he was big and tough, and not to be worried over. But he was curious to know where Rossi was going with this line of reasoning. He wouldn’t have told Jack there was _any_ injury that might last forever.

Rossi mimicked Hotch’s shrug, accompanying the gesture with a slight smile. “As we go through life, we pick up little hurts like that along the way.” He gave Hotch’s side a reassuring rub, then gripped Jack’s shoulder, claiming the boy’s full attention. “Those are the hurts that don’t really matter. It’s the _big_ ones, like losing your Mommy, that are a lot more important.”

Hotch ground his teeth in mute frustration, reaching to grab Rossi’s upper arm. _What are you thinking?! You’re making him feel even worse about something he’s already taking the blame for!_

With a firm touch, Rossi disengaged Hotch’s fingers. Putting his friend’s arm back in place, he glanced at the worried eyes. He gave Hotch’s chest a comforting pat before returning to Jack. _Trust me, Aaron. Let me do this for you._

“The hurt of losing your Mommy really only has one thing that’ll make it feel better…only one thing that’ll make the pain less and make it something Daddy can live with day to day. Only this cure doesn’t just take the pain and make it bearable; it goes way past the pain and brings him so much happiness that eventually it pushes all the hurt away into a dark, little corner. It outlasts and it outshines all that awful, terrible pain.”

Jack looked at Rossi with imploring eyes. “Can we get it for him? So he’ll feel better?”

Rossi nodded, biting his lower lip and squinting his eyes as though weighing the chances of being able to obtain this magical, marvelous cure. “I think so. I think so.” He pulled back a little, looking Jack up and down. “But you’ll have to come with me.”

The child nodded vigorously, anxious to do it _now_ , do it _fast_. So Daddy could begin to feel better right away.

“Okay then.” Rossi took Jack’s hand and stood, making the boy jump down from the bed, landing on the floor with the thud of bare feet. “C’mon.”

“Bye, Daddy!” Hotch’s son tossed the words over his shoulder, eager to embark upon his quest for his father’s happiness.

Hotch watched with anxious eyes, puzzled by the whole charade, wondering if being a little woozy was making him dense to Dave’s intentions. When the two began walking away from the bed, hand in hand, Hotch couldn’t keep still anymore. He threw back the covers, swinging his legs over the side, determined to follow his son.

But they reached their destination before Hotch’s feet hit the floor.

Rossi stopped before the huge oval mirror hinged to the top of the dresser. Lifting Jack up, he held him where he could see his own reflection, front and center. Hotch froze, intent on his son’s reaction to the ploy his own adult mind now understood.

“There ya go. That’s it.” Dave’s tone left no room for doubt.

“Poppi?” Grown-ups could be puzzling creatures. And mirrors could be magic. Like with Alice and that tricky, white rabbit. Jack was uncertain if he was seeing the same things Poppi was.

“That’s it, Jack.” Rossi’s voice was soft and sure. “Right there in the middle. It’s you. You’re what pushes all the sadness and pain back into a corner so small, your Daddy can walk right past it.” Their eyes met in the silvered surface.

“Every time you smile. Every time you’re truly happy inside, it pushes Daddy’s pain further and further away.” Rossi rested his chin on top of the boy’s head, still gazing into his reflected eyes. “That’s why you have to stop thinking you’ve done anything bad. You have to let all those sad thoughts go, so you can be happy and help Daddy get there, too.” He sighed. “Understand?”

There was a pause…

…while Jack thought it over.

…while Rossi met Hotch’s eyes in the mirror and saw them welling with gratitude; a small echo of a smile telling him his friend, at least, understood, even if his friend’s son might not.

…while Marty listened through the monitor, willing the child to accept the illogic and magic of love.

Jack frowned, coming to a difficult spot. “But I’m why Mommy went away in the first place.”

Rossi’s shoulders slumped. But before he could form a reply, a whirring noise interrupted, claiming everyone’s attention. Three sets of eyes turned to the Bat-Cam on the nightstand, ears erect, looking for all the world as though it was following the conversation.

 _And maybe it has been_ , thought Rossi. He looked at Jack, raptly watching the Bat-helmed creature.

“What d’ _you_ think?” Dave addressed the Bat-Cam directly. “Is there any possible way Jack played any part in his Mommy going away?”

The camera turned it’s dark lens around, studying the boy. After a moment, it whirred its answer, swiveling from side to side, shaking its head. _No._

Jack seemed fascinated, but Rossi wanted to make sure; to drive the point home. He picked Jack up, bringing him back to Hotch…and, coincidentally, the Bat-Cam.

“You didn’t make your Daddy sick, Jack. Germs did. And you didn’t make the germs. They were around long before you were born. And you didn’t make your Mommy go away. A bad man did. And he was around long before you were, too.” Rossi touched Jack’s chin, making him look up. “You wouldn’t take credit if one of your friends at school made a really cool clay sculpture, or drew a really good picture, would you?”

Jack blinked, then shook his head.

“Well then stop trying to take credit for what germs and bad guys do. It’s the same thing. Got it?” Rossi shot a sidelong look at the Bat-Cam. “You think he should stop doing that, too? Taking credit for stuff he didn’t do?”

Off in his bedroom, Marty made the camera scan up, then down, repeatedly…Bat-Cam was nodding.

The sound of a childish giggle coming through the wall was one of the sweetest things he’d ever heard.


	39. Leader by Example

Jack was able to grasp how wrong it was to take credit for other people’s work. He’d just never applied the principle to the bad things as well as the good. Nor had he thought of something like measles being the labor of germs who might resent responsibility for their efforts being stolen by some undeserving, young usurper.

It gave him something to think about. He cuddled up to Daddy, the look of contemplation on his small face clearly showing he was turning the concept over, examining it from all sides.

Relieved that the crisis had passed, Hotch let himself relax. The tension of being a mute audience while his son was given the tools to work out the sticky problem of misplaced guilt, had drained him. He was content to lie back and close his eyes for a few minutes.

When Jack and Rossi began playing a game that consisted of asking the Bat-Cam ‘yes’ and ‘no’ questions about its Bat-Purpose and Bat-Life, Hotch expelled a deep, ragged breath and let himself drift.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi cast surreptitious glances at Hotch while he and Jack questioned the Bat-Cam. When the man’s chest took on a slow, even rhythm, Rossi hustled the child off to his own bed for a nap, telling him he could return later. He still wanted Hotch to  log some solid, undisturbed sleep time.

With both Hotchners resting, Marty and Rossi adjourned to their chairs in the den to enjoy the adult version of Garcia’s grilled cheese and tomato soup. After hunger’s edge had been blunted, they discussed the events of the day so far.

“How much did you get to hear?” Rossi was pleased he wouldn’t have to recount the entire episode in detail. Marty would have been present except his gruff words earlier might have put Hotch on his guard too much. Plus, they hadn’t wanted Hotch to feel as though they were ganging up on him.

That would come later.

“Pretty much all, I think. I came in where you were taking Jack to find the miracle cure for what ails his Daddy.” The doctor grinned in remembrance. “Not bad. Not bad. You got the point across about how important being happy, not just being good is. And equating blame with its flip side, credit…I think that might have gotten through to the child. Maybe the father, too.”

“Yeah…the father.” Rossi sighed. “Do you agree that the next step is hammering into Aaron that he can’t just pay lip service? That he has to actually _be_ the change he wants to see in his son?” He shook his head. “I’ve gone over this in different ways with that man over the years. Every time we do this same dance, I think I’ve gotten through and we can move on past whatever his mental roadblock is. But then time’ll go by and he always backslides. Sometimes I want to smack him around a little.” Rossi shifted position, easing joints that were beginning to feel their age. “Or have the team do it for me. Morgan and Prentiss could do it. If they didn’t respect him too much. And if they didn’t like their jobs too much to risk getting canned for slapping their boss’ ears back.”

“The team….” Marty let his eyes go distant, mulling over what he’d learned of the diverse personalities that meshed into that oddly cohesive unit. “You might be onto something there, Dave.” He settled more deeply into his chair. “Tell me about the team and Aaron. Tell me some of their past. Both before and after you joined them, if you can.”

So the two, old friends spent the next few hours exchanging accounts that might have been tall tales if they hadn’t been so sadly grim.

When they were finished, it had been decided: Dave and Marty would take their own shot at Hotch, but afterwards the Education of Aaron Hotchner would be declared a team sport.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was awakened by a tickling deep within his ear.

He brushed at it, opening his eyes…and immediately felt hemmed in. Rossi sat on one side; Marty on the other. The sensation in his ear was attributable to the doctor taking another temperature reading. While Hotch pulled himself up to a sitting position, which felt less confined, the doctor peered at the digital reading on the thermometer.

“Hmmm…” He gave the requisite physician’s hum. “Well, it hasn’t gone up. Holding steady at 102.” He subjected Hotch to a speculative look. “How do you feel, son?”

The Unit Chief opened his mouth and emitted a low creaking noise. But this time there were definite syllables involved. Despite Hotch’s squeak of frustration, it _was_ progress.

Marty smiled, resting a hand on his patient’s shoulder. “Go easy, Aaron. Try not to talk; we’ll bring you some hot tea…” He met Rossi’s eyes in confirmation. “…and you’ll probably get your voice back sometime tomorrow.”

Hotch nodded.

The two older men exchanged faint smiles, more affectionate than humorous.

“In the meantime…” Rossi put his hand on Aaron’s other shoulder. “…let’s have a little talk.”

Hotch looked from one to the other. His eyes were fever-bright, but the older men could still detect the questions in their depths. He extended one hand, palm up, making movements with the other as though he were writing on it.

Rossi shook his head. “No. If we give you something to write with, you won’t really listen. You’ll be too busy formulating responses.” He sighed. “This is too important and I’m starting to feel discouraged about lifting those blinders you wear whenever you look at yourself. I’ve tried my best, but this time I’m calling in the big guns. I’m gonna throw the whole arsenal at you, Aaron.”

Hotch dropped his hands, but the quizzical look on his face was eloquent. _Blinders? Arsenal? What the hell are you talking about, Dave?_

Marty patted the shoulder under his palm. “Let’s bring him that tea first.” He glanced at Rossi from under his brows. “Got any chamomile? I think he’s gonna need it.”

 

xxxxxxxx

 

A short time later, cup in hand, Hotch cast wary looks as the two older men resumed their places at each side of his mattress; close, but not bracketing him in quite so tightly.

“Aaron, if you don’t make some changes in yourself, you’ll be condemning that boy of yours to a mirthless life filled with self-recrimination.” Fixing his friend with a deadly serious look, Rossi’s voice was sad.

A moment of shock, evidenced by slightly parted lips and rapid blinking was followed immediately by a glowering frown; a general bristling.

“Drink your tea, son.” Marty patted Hotch’s blanket-covered leg. “And put your hackles down. We’re all here for Jack’s sake.”

Hotch’s chest had tightened in resentment, but, denied any other physical outlet for the emotion, he caved, sipping his tea and assuming the injured air of a martyr.

“Don’t misunderstand, Aaron.” Rossi leaned in, earnest. “You’re a wonderful father. A _magnificent_ father. But what you saw in your son today was a reflection of your own refusal to see yourself clearly.”

Hotch looked torn between anger at the accusation and simply being aghast at it.

“Drink your tea, son.” The doctor rubbed his patient’s knee, nodding toward the cup in his hand.

“Jack’s an amazing boy, but he’s taking blame and burying himself in guilt…because _that’s what Daddy does_! He worships you, Aaron. And, for better or worse, he’s gonna copy everything about you.”

This time Hotch didn’t need prompting. He sipped his tea.

“Do you know why you’re Unit Chief, Aaron?”

Hotch raised his head from the cup, openly questioning Rossi’s shift in subject matter.

“They could have given that job to any number of people, but they chose you. Not because of your track record. Not because of your experience. They did it because you’re a leader. You can’t help it.”

Hotch shook his head, uncertain of what he was supposed to glean from this. Marty reached out, placing his fingers beneath the cup, raising it, encouraging Hotch to drink.

“You’re a man of very few words. You lead by example. You set a personal standard of integrity and bravery that inspires others to follow you.” Rossi sighed. “But even so, we see you questioning yourself in the aftermath of every single case. We see you sitting by yourself on the way home, quietly tearing yourself apart; punishing yourself by thinking you could’ve done better.”

A few beats passed. Rossi continued.

“Aaron… ‘could’ve been better’ is _not_ the same as ‘not good enough.’”

Hotch looked uncomfortable. The idea that his team might have profiled him that deeply bordered on embarrassing.

Rossi’s voice was gentler when he continued. “Children are amazingly perceptive, Aaron. Sometimes I think they’re the best profilers of all. If we can hear that internal dialogue, Jack can, too. And he’s copying it. I told him the importance of being truly happy to heal his Daddy’s hurts. Now I’m telling you….You need to be kind to yourself. Otherwise, your son will grow up believing he’s ‘not good enough,’ no matter how hard he tries. Because that’s what the man he’s modeling himself after believes. And like I told Jack: you can’t fake it. Faking doesn’t count. You have to _be_ it.”

Rossi sat back. “A life of self-doubt. That’d be a hell of a legacy, Aaron. Neither of you deserves it.”

Marty gave Hotch’s shoulder a sympathetic pat. “Drink your tea, son.”

But Jack’s father didn’t hear. He was letting Rossi’s words sink in; testing them for weak spots that could be argued. Later. When his voice returned and he could defend himself. But it was hard. He kept coming up against his tarnished self-image; looping back to it in what he could see was a destructive circle after all. Maybe. He wasn’t sure. His brows drew together in a scowl.

After a few minutes, the older men exchanged glances. Rossi tilted his head toward Hotch.

“Hamster wheel’s stuck.”


	40. Safe Place

Hotch seemed thoughtful for the rest of the day.

Jack came bounding in, full of energy after his nap. But Hotch was lagging behind his son in the recovery process. He couldn’t keep up with the demands to play. Mostly, he held Jack close, head bowed, eyes closed, nose muffled against the boy’s hair. The older men didn’t know if Hotch was berating himself for having failed as a father, or reviewing their earlier discussion and, hopefully, taking it to heart in the spirit in which it had been intended.

Whatever he was experiencing, they left him alone to work through it on his own.

But after a while, when it looked as though Jack couldn’t take any more quiet snuggle-time, preferring to find something more active to do, Rossi took him downstairs to play with the dogs.

Marty stayed behind with Hotch. Taking a seat on the bed, he took hold of the hem of his patient’s t-shirt.

“I think I can take those bandages off your ribs for good this time. Haven’t heard the deep cough for a while.”

Hotch nodded, still looking a bit distracted. The doctor slipped off the shirt. Retrieving the blunted scissors from his medical bag, he began the slow task of snipping through the layers of fabric binding Hotch’s torso. Every so often, he’d glance at the dark, downcast eyes, trained on some internal landscape.

“I hope you’re not using what we talked about in exactly the pattern we’re trying to break you out of, son.” There was no eye contact, but the distant look had fled. _He’s listening…but not engaging. Bet it’s one of those things he does to hide, like Dave said._

“You know…” He was halfway through the dressing. “…I do understand, Aaron. Having a skewed vision of yourself because of a difficult past isn’t so different from having an infection.” The eyes shifted, but still didn’t look up. “The medication that addresses the problem begins to work. Things start to look better. And that’s usually when the healing process is at its most vulnerable.”

With more than gentle care, Marty made the last cut, spreading the bandages apart to reveal the body beneath. “That’s when everyone thinks they can stop medicating; that the cure has been successful and it will somehow continue having a salutary effect all on its own. No more attention need be paid. No more effort need be expended.”

“Lean forward, son.” The doctor slipped the dressing out from behind Hotch, dropping it to the floor by the bed. “Lie back again. Let’s have a look here.”  With light, professional precision, his fingers traced the bones and indentations between them, testing for tenderness, keeping a close watch on Hotch’s face for signs of discomfort.

When Marty felt a flinch, he noted that his patient’s features remained blankly stoic. _Again…hiding._ He recognized his first frisson of discouragement when it came to Aaron Hotchner. _How do we break through here? The fox has gone to ground yet again._ He sighed. _Dave might be right: it’s time for some shock therapy._

Aloud, the doctor continued, picking up the thread of his discourse on the pitfalls in treating infectious conditions. “As I was saying, the problem I encounter most often is judging things based on appearance. Infections go deep. Stop treating them just because they look better, and they can come back. Sometimes come _roaring_ back, twice as virulent. Persistence is the key to success. Vigilant persistence.” He sighed, adding, almost as though talking to himself. “…and patience. The patience of a saint.”

Hotch was definitely paying attention. There might even be some interest flickering deep within the eyes. Marty patted the ribs under his hand. “I think these’ll be okay on their own now. But a little physical therapy on a regular basis might work wonders.” Finally, the shadowed eyes looked up into his own.

“I could set that up for you. Twice a week or so…depending on your schedule.” His smile had a touch of melancholy to it. “Like I said, Aaron: Diligence. Persistence. Don’t give up. Keep working, and believe that things can get better. Alright?”

Hotch’s gaze was steady. He mouthed the words _Thank you._

Marty’s smile grew warmer. “Don’t mention it. As I told you the other day, Dave offered me part ownership. I’m just kicking the tires; seeing what kind of maintenance is involved.” He stood, groaning when his joints protested with audible pops. “B-u-u-u-t, all in all, I think I’d be getting the better part of the deal.”

The doctor headed toward the door, assuring himself of the bargain he was getting. “Always wanted something smart that I could take out and show off every once in a while.”

He glanced back with a mischievous grin. “And Fudge is gettin’ kind of old, little bit shabby…”

He felt rewarded when the corners of Hotch’s lips quirked upward. It was only for a moment.

But it was better than nothing.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Downstairs, Jack was deep in conversation with Mudgie and the much maligned Fudge.

Rossi was similarly involved, out of earshot, on the phone with Garcia, official conduit to the rest of the team.

“They’re both improving, but Hotch still has a ways to go. And, he’s doing that internalizing thing again. Morgan’ll know what I mean. Just tell him it’s like on the jet…after a case. He’ll understand.”

He paused, listening to her response, the audible equivalent of the snap and flash of colorful energy that personified the tech analyst.

“Then I’ll rely on you to get the others on board…” Rossi looked up, hearing Marty coming down the stairs. “…case load permitting, of course.” He watched the doctor make his way into the kitchen.

“And please tell the others to fill Reid in, too. He’s the only one besides me who wasn’t there for what I guess we’ll call ‘Part One’ of Hotch’s new curriculum. Yeah. But J.J., Prentiss, Morgan, and you…you’ll have to remember what was said and just…I dunno…get creative. Build on it. Okay?” Rossi heard noises of meal preparation from beyond the kitchen door.

“Right. Thanks, Penelope. You’ve done _so_ much to help with all this. I hope you’ll let us take you out when it’s all over. And give you a proper ‘thanks.’” He listened, laughed. “Good. I’ll see you guys tomorrow…hopefully.”

 After closing the connection, Rossi checked to make sure Jack was still engrossed in his canine companions. Then, hearing more noises from the kitchen, he went to see what Marty was doing. He found the doctor putting together a tray of small snacks, along with another pot of steaming, hot tea. Marty glanced around when he heard Dave come in.

“I’m gonna keep pushing food on that boy upstairs. Lord knows, we have plenty on hand.”

Rossi nodded. “How’s he doing?”

“Ahhhhh…” It was part disbelieving frustration, part affectionate sympathy. “He’s doing what you said he would. Hiding. And I have to say, Dave, he’s very, very good at it.”

“Well…he’s had a lifetime to practice and hone his craft.” Rossi sighed, watching his friend put the finishing touches on what would be next in line of a constant stream of edible offerings. “So what else do you think?”

“On a physical level, I think he’s coming along. Voice’ll probably start to come back tomorrow. Ribs shouldn’t be in too much danger anymore.” He glanced toward Rossi, brows raised. “But I did offer him PT. I’ll set it up, but you’ll have to make him attend.”

Rossi nodded. “What else?”

“He’s still contagious. Jack’ll be fine in about three days, but Aaron’ll need a little more time.”

“And?”

“A-a-a-n-d…I’m beginning to wonder if he _wants_ to overcome this mental, emotional trauma he carries inside.” Rossi’s quizzical expression said additional explanation was required. Marty picked up the tray, shaking his head. “We have to consider the possibility, Dave. Being abused was the boy’s whole life. It defined him as a man. He’s had more than his share of pain and torment as an adult, too, so it’s hard to make this judgment. I could be wrong…”

“But you could be right.” Rossi swallowed, anxiety for Hotch bringing a sour taste into his mouth.

The doctor met the agent’s eyes, reading the reflection of his own concern.

“It’s what he knows best. It formed him. It’s a terrible thing to consider, Dave, but…being hurt is what he expects. And maybe…maybe…”

Rossi’s voice was sad as he finished his friend’s sentence.

“Pain is Aaron’s safe place.”


	41. Packs and Tribes

Rossi watched the doctor ascend the stairs, intending to entice Hotch with more food and tea.

Aaron was recovering, but something inside was so broken it almost defied understanding. Rossi flashed on the episodes of feverish delirium when all he could do was hold his friend and tell him over and over that he was safe.

 _And now we find out that for him ‘safe’ is a place of pain?_ Rossi shook his head, a small, repetitive motion that sprang from denial and stunned disbelief. _How could I have known him for so many years without picking up on that?_

And the answer was immediate. He could almost hear Aaron’s voice speaking to him. _Because I know how to hide. I’ve never stopped. When you think you’ve found me, I’m gone…again…No one can catch me…no one can touch me…_

Rossi’s glance fell on Jack, squirming about, wrestling Fudge, who ignored the pup with his arms twined around her neck, while maintaining a dignified air of patient suffering. He shook his head again, unaware of the motion; a reflexive rejection of Hotch’s nature.

 _No. It can’t be. There **is** someone who touches Aaron. He can’t keep those barriers up against his son. He **can’t**._ Rossi tried to deny the ache in his own heart. He’d thought they were so close. He knew Hotch better than anyone; loved him more than most. He might have cried himself, if his innate profiling abilities hadn’t asserted themselves.

 _I’m letting my own hurt block my vision of what’s really going on here. Aaron isn’t blocking me out. He’s not blocking **anyone** out. He’s trapped. And he doesn’t have the key to what’s caging him. He’s in a place he wants to leave, even if it’s his place of choice. But he doesn’t know how to get out. Now we just know that he’s afraid of what he’ll find if he **does** escape. He can’t imagine living in any other kind of cage._ The head shake turned to a nod. _We’re all afraid of the unknown. Until we enter it and become part of that thing that’s new to us…and the ‘unknown’ transforms into the ‘known.’_

Upset, needing to distract himself, Rossi cast about for something else to take his attention. The largest kitchen counter was still crowded with Garcia’s containers of things that didn’t require refrigeration…and more gift-wrapped bags of homemade doggie biscuits…and a large shopping bag he hadn’t really looked at, assuming it was more of the same.

He pulled on one handle. Spreading the opening wide, he peered into its depths. And grinned. _Prentiss. It has to be from Prentiss._ He pulled out the large envelope labeled ‘Ribs For Your Ribs.’ _Only Emily would have the audacity to get personal and demonstrate to her boss that she sees what he needs and doesn’t care if he knows._

He looked deeper. A book on coin collecting with lots and lots of pictures and tales of extraordinary finds. It was a hobby Hotch had cherished as an adolescent… _probably a rare opportunity to take a break from his grim home-life reality_...but had abandoned as an adult. Rossi felt his throat constrict a little. _I bet he doesn’t think that we know that about him._

A small, black, plush wolf gazed up from a nest of tissue paper, a toothy grin animating its snout. _Odd thing to give Aaron. He’s not the stuffed animal type._ He fished the toy out and turned it over. On the back, just beneath the brushy tail was a label. “Wordy Wolf – Programmable Talking Doll.” Frowning,  Rossi inspected the creature more closely, finding an unobtrusive, black, plastic ring buried in the dark fur just behind one front leg.

He pulled the ring out, releasing it when the string to which it was attached was fully extended. The voice was unidentifiable at first, but he could imagine Emily disguising her own to achieve the effect of a wolf cub’s puppy-speech.

“My name’s Wordsworth…what’s yours!” He repeated the action.

“Wheels up in thirty!” the little animal yipped. Rossi chuckled, pulling the ring out again.

“I’ve got your back!” His smile grew.

“We’re a team; we’re responsible to and for each other.” His smile faded just a bit. The words had been delivered in a less humorous tone; more one of affirmation, of pride.

“We need you, Boss-man; get well…”

“You’re our pack leader, Hotch!”

“We want Hotch! We want Hotch!”

“Give me an ‘Aitch!’ Give me an ‘Oh!’ Give me a “Tee..Cee…Aitch!”

Rossi compressed his lips, giving the furry, plush beast a solemn look. He placed it back in the bag, patting its head as though it needed to be congratulated on a good performance. He sighed.

 _How many bosses in the world command that kind of affectionate loyalty?...Not many._ He turned, looking up in the direction of Hotch’s room. _We’ll see how things go tomorrow._ He pushed the bag back far enough away from the edge to safeguard it from investigating dog noses that might happen by.

It crossed his mind to bring it up to Aaron, but he decided to leave that to Prentiss.

If things went as planned, the whole team would be on hand tomorrow anyway.

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

For a moment, Marty was concerned. Hotch was nowhere to be seen.

He made space for the tray on the nightstand, glancing around the room for clues to his patient’s whereabouts. When he heard the shower come on in the bathroom, the doctor gave a rueful smile. Concern for cleanliness, which he gathered was vital to Aaron’s sense of wellbeing, was a good sign. But he wasn’t sure of the man’s strength yet. A bout of dizziness could easily fell someone with a 102 temperature.

He went to the bathroom door and raised his voice. “Aaron!” There was no response, but he hadn’t expected one. Laryngitis might benefit from the steam generated by a hot shower, but not enough for Hotch to be audible yet. “Aaron, I just want you to know I’m out here if you need any help.” The sound of the water altered. Marty recognized it as the change when a stream from a showerhead hits a body rather than a tiled interior.

_This is good. He’ll feel better about the team descending on him tomorrow if his personal hygiene is under control._

The doctor retreated to the chair at Hotch’s bedside and waited.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Jack had worn himself out struggling to exert dominance over Fudge. The dog ignored his efforts to wrestle with studied, canine dignity; impressing on this pup that it would need to grow much larger before it could challenge her place in the pack.

Mudgie looked on, tongue lolling in amusement. He approved the demonstration of adult disinterest Fudge was showing. Pups had to learn their place. He wasn’t surprised when the youngster gave up, panting from exertion. When he rolled free and cast a speculative glance Mudge’s way, the dog yawned, signifying a lack of concern when it came to being bested equal to Fudge’s.

“Jack?” Rossi came into the room bearing a plate arranged in two clearly separated sections. Both contained Garcia’s cookies: one pile for people; one for pets. Rossi watched, smiling, as all three creatures fell on the treats.

Jack assumed the same position as the dogs, lying on his stomach and pretending to gnaw at his cookie, but, looking at his hands holding it in imitation of the paws beside him, he frowned.

“Poppi?”

“What?”

Jack extended one arm, a sad look in his eyes. “Spots are going away.”

Rossi leaned close, examining the formerly bright spots that had faded to a brownish hue. “That’s good. That means you’re getting better and you can go back to school soon.”

The child’s face was tragic. It was Rossi’s turn to frown. “What’s wrong, Jack? Don’t you want to go back to school? See your friends?”

“Guess so.”

“B-u-u-u-t?” Rossi coaxed.

“Won’t be a Leopard anymore.” The voice was sullen, not expecting a non-member to understand the enormity of being cast out of Daddy’s tribe.

Rossi’s heart lurched in sympathy and the desire to spare the child any sadness. “That’s not true, Jack.” The small face looked up, hopeful, but uncertain until it knew more. “The spots got you initiated…made you worthy of being in the tribe.”

Rossi’s look was grave, not to be questioned. “And once you’re in, you’re in. You’ll always be part of your Daddy’s tribe, no matter what. Once a Raspberry Leopard…always a Raspberry Leopard.”

Several beats passed. The boy considered this argument; the adult hoped his words were sufficient to overcome any misgivings about unblemished skin.

When Jack finally smiled, Rossi exhaled the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Belief and trust were written all over the child’s face. He went back to his cookie, chanting the new Hotchner family motto.

“Raspberry Leopards forever 'n ever 'n ever...”

  


	42. Cracks

“Can we go over it again? Before we get there?”

“ ‘S’matter, Pretty Boy? Eidetic memory not working?” Flashing a grin, Morgan nudged the teammate sitting beside him in the SUV, enjoying the opportunity to razz him a little.

Morgan was half-right. Reid’s brain was hitting a roadblock. But what was impeding it wasn’t a sudden lack of recall. Quite the opposite.

When Garcia had explained what Rossi wanted them to base their intervention with Hotch on, the youngest agent’s brain had stuttered.

First, he hadn’t been present…nor had Rossi, although both had had the details recounted to them by the others after the fact, and in Rossi’s case, years later.

Second, when mention was made of the case where Reid had been kidnapped, held captive, and tortured both physically and pharmaceutically, his mind had automatically dredged up all the ugliness centered around Tobias Hankel and his dissociated personalities. Thanks to his power of recall, Reid was hit with such vivid images, scents, sensations, it was hampering his ability to concentrate in the present.

“Be nice, Morgan.” J.J. had her own memories of guilt about her performance in the field that day her partner was taken. It brought out even more of her protective, big-sister edge toward Reid.

“C’mon. He knows I’m kidding.” Morgan ruffled his friend’s hair; a gesture that did nothing to improve Reid’s mood.

Glancing in the rearview mirror from her place in the driver’s seat, Prentiss saw the exchange. It reminded her there was something else of which they should be mindful in the upcoming confrontation. “And guys, remember, too: Hotch’ll never admit it, and he won’t initiate it, but he likes being touched.”

Morgan saw another chance for gentle teasing. “Are you sure it isn’t just _you_ want to touch him, Emily?”

Prentiss shot him a sly grin, letting him know she appreciated the joke, and wasn’t at all threatened by the suggestion.

But, as so often happened, the comradely innuendo flew over Reid’s head. “No, that’s true. The tactile approach works well with approximately 89% of the patient population at any given time.” Reid welcomed the opportunity to fasten on a statistic. It made him less nervous. But he still wanted a little more reassurance. He tried a different angle.

“So when we get there, how do we start? How did it begin with you guys last time? Tell me again?”

Garcia pushed her glasses higher on the bridge of her snub nose. “It was kinda awful, actually. I mean you were…you were…” She turned large, full eyes on her junior colleague.

Reid’s memory was a gift of his intellect. Garcia’s was a product of her heart; the heart that rebelled against all things dark and terrible by reacting with an overflow of love. She couldn’t help herself. She was known to practice the spontaneous kiss…the spontaneous hug. She’d even left lip prints on Hotch’s gaunt cheek after seeing the damage George Foyet had done to him.

Taking a shuddering breath, she began again. “You got a message through to Boss-man. And he ran with it. He explained it to us by having us list his worst qualities. Got us there faster.”

An uncomfortable silence took up the next few beats.

“And Rossi thinks it might have hurt, but he actually seeks that kind of thing out?” Morgan ran his hand over his scalp, frustrated by both the idea of his leader’s vulnerability, and his own unwitting part in that exchange so long ago.

J.J.’s soft voice filled the sudden quiet. “He let us touch his emotional scars, his pain, to get us through the riddle to find Spence quicker. Hotch let us hurt him to help Spence. And he never said a word about it afterwards.”

The silence returned.

“We didn’t know.” Prentiss slowed as they entered Rossi’s neighborhood. The dignified scale of it made her want to go carefully, almost reverently. It was like entering a library and knowing you should whisper.

“We’re profilers. We _should_ have known.” Morgan would never admit how much he admired his boss. The idea of inflicting pain on him…no matter how unintentional…bothered him.

“So what did you guys say?” Reid glanced around at his co-workers. He had a hard time imagining any of them being inordinately harsh, even if Hotch had asked for it.

“I dunno. It was too long ago. And no one thought it would stick with him.” Morgan gazed out the window at the perfect, manicured lawns, the wrought iron gates. When he spoke again, it was like a confession with a twinge of regret. “I called him a drill sergeant.”

“I told him he didn’t trust women.” Prentiss slowed even more as Rossi’s driveway came into view.

“It wasn’t that bad.” Garcia sighed. “At least, I didn’t think so.”

“We’re here.” Prentiss pulled in, craning her neck forward and up to look at Rossi’s impressive grounds. His lifestyle never failed to astonish her. “And remember, he likes to be touched.”

Morgan’s grin returned. “Yeah, yeah. Tell you what, Emily. If we can make him smile, you have to do something along the lines of ‘sin to win,’ ‘put your money where your mouth is,’ ‘truth or dare.’ Okay?”

Every other agent and one tech analyst gave him quizzical looks. Morgan’s expression was pure mischief.

“If we get through to Hotch, you have to kiss him.”

Assorted gasps and exclamations greeted the adolescent mentality of Morgan’s condition on the intervention. But Prentiss merely raised a brow as she engaged her teammate’s eyes in the rearview, meeting his challenge with calm determination.

“Kiss him where?”

The purring tone in which the question was asked set Morgan back. He was uncharacteristically reserved as Prentiss came to a stop and cut the engine.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch had enjoyed a relatively quiet night.

When he’d finished his shower the previous evening, he’d been a little alarmed at how weak he felt. What was a routine, daily task had taken much longer than usual in his present condition and had drained him. He was secretly grateful Marty had been there afterwards to tuck him into bed.

He’d repaid the doctor by assuming a grave and patient air while listening to him reiterate his views on being perfect, and the value of having some cracks in one’s façade.

He understood people were trying to help him. But it was frustrating to be voiceless, unable to argue or explain. There were too many things others couldn’t possibly grasp about him. And privately, he was glad. He felt bad for anyone who loved him too much. It was energy ill-spent. It was an emotional investment that would never have anything but diminishing returns.

Not how he wanted it.

Certainly not how he’d planned it.

Just the way it was.

He couldn’t explain. And every time he tried to explore himself for answers…additional insight…he’d get to a point where he just didn’t care. It wasn’t worth the painful effort.

**_I’m_ ** _not worth it._

Dave kept telling him how wonderful, marvelous, fantastic he was. It was like listening to the ocean. A comforting noise that made no sense, and, once it was out of hearing, easily forgotten. Hotch knew he was being a little peevish because he didn’t feel well, but he was tired of trying to change something that he’d lived with for as long as he could remember.

_This **is** me. If I’m so great, Dave, why do you want to change me?_

Eventually, he’d fallen asleep, tired of running the same track over and over without getting anywhere. The only thing that threw a wrench into the works was when he awakened sometime in the deep night to find Jack nestled beside him. One small arm had been pulled in close, keeping warm against Daddy. The other had been placed with very deliberate care over his now unbandaged  rib injury.

When he’d shifted to better accommodate his son, the little hand had patted his ribs. Hotch swallowed. This was the one thing that he couldn’t fit into his life philosophy. How someone as damaged as he was deserved such a monumental gift as Jack.

Some of Marty’s words returned, to whisper to him in the dark.

_Cracks are necessary, Aaron. They let in the light. They protect from the danger of trying to be perfect. And they let out the bad, the steam that might otherwise build and build until the very pressure of trying to be perfect damages you; blows you apart…and away from those who love you._

Hotch curled in a little tighter against his son and let the old doctor’s speech wash over him. In the silent night, when no one was talking at him, battering at his defenses, he was better able to see past them himself.

Jack stirred.

Hotch’s stomach twisted.

_Oh, God. He’s right. But it doesn’t matter about me. Jack’s the one who matters._

He squeezed his eyes shut.

_I have to let myself crack open for my son. I have to show him how so he won’t end up like me._

Hotch drifted off again with his child’s voice echoing in some far off dreamscape. “I wanna be like you, Daddy. Just like you.”

_I can’t let that happen. I have to let myself break so he’ll see…he’ll know…he needs to be **different** from his Daddy._


	43. Surprise Encounter

Rossi hadn’t slept much.

He was worried about the team descending upon Aaron. Wondering if it was the right thing to do. He’d risen twice during the night to look in on his friend. The second time, he’d peered through the darkness at what looked like far too massive a lump under the covers to be slender Aaron. Coming closer, he’d realized Jack had crept into bed to be at his father’s side; one small, protective hand resting on Daddy’s ribs.

Rossi’s smile began in his heart, lighting his entire face. He pulled the covers a little higher to keep the pair warm, and turned off the monitor connected to Jacks’ room. Once together, he didn’t think there’d be a way to pry the Hotchners apart at night anymore. _And no bad thing now that flu’s not an issue._ He returned to his own bed, wondering what it would have been like when he was Hotch’s age to wake up with a child clinging to him. _You’re a lucky man, Aaron. But you deserve it. You’ve earned it. You continue to earn it every day._

Now, as morning dawned in Quantico, he was waiting at the door when the Bureau SUV arrived. The team tumbled out, exhibiting varying degrees of trepidation. Reid looked downright nervous…and reluctant.

Rossi greeted them with a smile that failed to reach his eyes. He was a little unsure about this, too. But he couldn’t think of anything else that would qualify as shock therapy. And he was tired of watching Hotch limp through life. He ushered his guests through the massive, carved front door.

“He’s still asleep. How ‘bout some coffee while we wait?”

A chorus of mumbled responses signaled general acceptance.

The group remained uncharacteristically silent as their host assembled coffee service, augmented by a selection of Garcia’s seemingly never-ending cookies. When Rossi’s eye fell on the gift bag Prentiss had prepared, his smile finally returned in earnest. Snagging the bag by one handle, he deposited it beside Emily’s chair.

“Thought you might want to give this to him today. Maybe afterwards.”

Morgan’s rumbling chuckle interrupted. “Ohhhh…if all goes as planned, she’ll be giving him something else…right, Prentiss?”

To her credit, the agent shrugged, raising one brow as she sipped from her cup; a study in nonchalance. “Mmmmm.”

Rossi glanced around the group and correctly interpreted Morgan’s strategy. He was trying to lighten the mood. They anticipated a tense encounter with someone they cared about and were schooled to treat in a certain manner. Suddenly, they were going to get very personal, very quickly with him. At such times, Morgan used humor to defuse the situation. It didn’t seem to be working very well this time.

“Well, whatever you’re planning, let’s keep the main goal in sight.” Rossi settled into what he considered the equivalent of a pre-game, locker room pep talk.

“Here’s how it is. He lost his voice and as of yesterday couldn’t do much more than glare. I didn’t let him have anything to write with, so he was forced to listen to Marty and me when we tried to break through to him…”

Rossi’s phone chimed. Spines straightened throughout the group; a reflexive response to the sound. But almost immediately they relaxed. If the team was going to be called in, Morgan’s or J.J.’s phone would have gone off. Rossi glanced at the screen…and froze. After a few seconds, he shook his head, grinning.

“It’s Hotch. He’s texting me. Says ‘I found my phone, Dave.’” He looked up at the five sets of eyes waiting for elaboration. “I wanted him to rest. I tucked it away in a drawer in his room.” Rossi looked back at the message, shaking his head. “He must be feeling a little better if he went looking.”

“Don’t you believe it.” Marty’s voice preceded him as he entered the kitchen. “You know what he’s like, Dave. He’s an alpha. We took his control away yesterday and now he’s dead-set on demonstrating he’s got it back.” The doctor paused, looking at Aaron’s gathered co-workers. “Morning, all.”

Nods and variations on the greeting came back at him. He continued.

“He’s still sick and he shouldn’t be doing anything more strenuous than hugging his son.” Marty headed for the coffee pot. “That’s my professional opinion, for what it’s worth. And I did check him about twenty minutes ago. Still feverish.” He filled a cup. “101.5 temperature is an improvement, but he’s still feeling bad.”

Morgan’s phone announced a call.

Again, a current ran through the team. This could be a case. They might have to leave. All eyes were on Derek.

“It’s Hotch!” He brought the small screen closer, incredulous. “He wants to know what we’ve been working on the last few days!”

Before the sick man’s misplaced dedication could be fully absorbed, all heads swiveled toward the doorway.

Jack’s piping voice could be heard, chanting tunelessly the sort of wordless nonsense children his age utter for their own amusement. They could hear him coming down the stairs, approaching the kitchen door.

“Everyone be quiet about Hotch.” Rossi kept his voice low, private. “We don’t want to alarm Jack.”

The kitchen door opened…

…and the parties on both sides of it froze.

A still-spotted Hotch clad in boxers and t-shirt clearly hadn’t expected to encounter anyone other than Rossi or Marty. He braced himself against the doorjamb, swaying, blinking, his son pressed against his leg.

Morgan was the first to react. “Whoa….”

If this was his boss feeling better, Derek didn’t want to know what he’d looked like yesterday. Or the day before. He saw a painfully thin man with eyes that had the spark of fever in them, shining out of a face whose pallor and slight sheen of perspiration told him that navigating Rossi’s grand staircase had sapped whatever reserves Hotch had.

“No, no, no, no, no…” Morgan was at his Unit Chief’s side before the man could recover from the surprise of seeing his entire team present. “C’mon, man. Upstairs. Back to bed.”

When Hotch tried to speak, a thready, rusty sound emerged. But it _was_ identifiable. “No.”

Morgan gritted his teeth. “You look like hell. You’re still sick.” The dark eyes blazed defiance. Morgan was having none of it. “Either you let me help you back up, or I’m carrying you, man.” A momentary stand-off while Derek tried to match the ferocity of Hotch’s stare.

What tipped the scales was when Morgan muttered, “Okay, have it your way,” and slipped an arm behind Hotch’s waist. As he bent, placing the other arm behind the bare knees, preparatory to sweeping Hotch up into his arms, the leader of the BAU relented.

It was bad enough standing before them all in his underwear. He drew the line at being manhandled in front of not only his colleagues, but his son.

“ ‘Kay.” It was a weak approximation of his normal deep baritone; more the voice of a small woodland creature just learning human-speak. But Morgan heard it and spared Hotch the indignity of being overpowered. He straightened, but the arm behind Hotch’s waist remained where it was.

“C’mon, Hotch. Lemme help you back up.” He tightened his embrace, encouraging his friend to turn around. But Hotch’s eyes were fixed on the agents populating Rossi’s kitchen.

“Why?” He squeaked, frowning at his own vocal disability.

Again, Morgan heard the scratchy, reedy voice and responded.

“We miss you, Boss-man.” He claimed Hotch’s gaze and held it. His voice softened. “We wanna help you, Hotch.” He gave another squeeze to Aaron’s waist, reassuring, coaxing him around.

J.J. saw what was needed with a mother’s keen eye and approached, smiling down at Jack who sensed something was going on that was not entirely to Daddy’s liking. She crouched down to the child’s level. “Hi, Jack. Bet you want some breakfast, right?” A vigorous nod answered her.

She took his hand, but he resisted, casting an anxious look up at his father. Hotch sighed, met J.J.’s soft eyes and nodded. He nudged his son toward her. Having Daddy’s approval made all the difference. Jack let Ms. Jareau lead him away, Garcia joining them as she listed from memory all the tasty options that awaited his five-year-old appetite.

This time Morgan had a little more success redirecting Hotch. Rossi came up on Aaron’s other side, placing a hand between his shoulder blades, hoping to guide and comfort at once.

“Morgan’s right, Aaron. You’re not strong enough yet. Back to bed. And then I’ll bring you something to eat and, well…” Rossi glanced at Morgan behind Hotch’s back. “…then we’ll see where things go.”

With a small sigh, half gratitude, half resignation, Aaron let the men on each side of him take some of his weight. He’d misjudged his own recovery. He wasn’t sure he could make it to the second floor on his own.

But if he really couldn’t…if he collapsed…he knew the men beside him wouldn’t let him fall. 


	44. Common Bond

It was slow going getting Hotch up the stairs.

Halfway to the landing, he had depleted his store of carefully husbanded, and woefully overestimated, energy. Morgan and Rossi exchanged glances over his drooping head when each noticed the increase in weight they were supporting. Morgan braced himself to take even more, if necessary.

“Almost there, Hotch. We gotcha. A-l-l-l-most there.”

Once they had him sitting on the bed, he seemed better. A few deep breaths and he straightened himself, raising his chin in a sad approximation of defiance. But when he saw the sympathy in the eyes of his two teammates as they stood, looking down on him, he relented. Leaning over, he rested his elbows on his knees; eyes finding something inordinately interesting on the floor.

Hotch was weak and he knew it. He was also honest and smart. There was nothing to be gained by pretending. _Not ‘til I can fake it better, anyway_.

“I’m gonna bring him something to eat.” Rossi headed toward the door, glancing over his shoulder when he realized Morgan wasn’t following. “You coming?”

Derek shook his head, still watching Hotch with calculating eyes. “No, I think I’ll stay here.”

Rossi looked at them both, but didn’t sense any alpha tension between them. He shrugged. “Okay. Be back in a bit.”

When it looked as though Hotch didn’t intend to move, Morgan took a seat beside him, close enough to dent the mattress enough that the lighter man had to adjust his position or risk sliding down into the heavier’s territory. The Unit Chief frowned, scooting a little farther away. He didn’t like being crowded. He shot a look at his subordinate, but Morgan’s gaze was fixed on the same invisible, yet obviously fascinating thing on the floor that had claimed Hotch’s attention.

He appeared entirely un-confrontational. And was clearly searching for words. When he placed a hand on his leader’s back with a touch so gentle and caring, it belied the powerful look of it, Hotch stayed still and let him.

Morgan kept his eyes on the floor, feeling the Unit Chief’s bones through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. His voice was low and private when he finally spoke.

“Hotch.” He paused, gathering his courage. “More than any other two people on this team, you and me…we share…something.” He kept his focus on the floor. “The way we grew up. The other’s don’t understand.”

He could feel Hotch stiffen beneath his hand, his respiration quicken. The only people who knew the details of Hotch’s battered childhood were Morgan and Rossi. The same three men also shared knowledge of Morgan’s sexual abuse at the hands of a father-figure during his formative years.

“Hotch, I’m not saying we went through the same things, but…” He rubbed along the too-prominent bones of his friend’s spine. “…but I’m working on it; working on getting past it. _You_ …you’re working on everyone else’s problems…the _world’s_ problems…but not your own.” Morgan could swear he could feel Hotch’s heart beating so rapidly, it was palpable through the man’s back. The sense of vulnerable fragility was disturbing. He moved his hand up to Hotch’s shoulder, kneading the tense muscles.

“I don’t know what to say to make it easier for you.” Morgan’s voice thickened. “I don’t think ‘easy’ is possible for guys like us… you know…damaged. But please know this, Hotch…” He gave his friend a one-armed hug, quickly released. “Every time you stop fighting the pain, it starts to grow again. You can’t let it get ahead of you, man. And if you need help…hell, I’m strong enough to give it. And I’d be honored.”

The two men finally glanced at each other, making eye contact. For a moment each saw a kindred spirit. Hotch broke away first.

He appreciated the offer, but the pain was an enormous part of who he was. He didn’t know how to ask for help. He wasn’t sure it really existed on a scale large enough to make a difference.

And he was so very afraid that if the pain ever went away…he’d fade right along with it.

There’d be nothing left of him at all.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Downstairs, J.J. had set Jack up at a patio table, safely out of hearing in case discussion of his Daddy came up.

Rossi began putting together a tray for Hotch. When Garcia dove into the freezer, extracting a concoction that looked primarily composed of eggs and cheese, he let her take over breakfast preparation for the recovering measles victim.

“Isn’t Morgan coming down?” When he didn’t appear behind Rossi, Prentiss wanted to know.

“No. At least, not yet.” Rossi shrugged. “He said he wanted to stay up there.”

“Huh. Wonder what he’s doing…”

“Do those two get along most of the time?” Marty was sitting in a patch of sunlight, sipping coffee, ruffling Fudge’s ears every once in a while, and observing the team dynamics. Such a disparate group forming such a cohesive bond was a never-ending source of both admiration and amusement.

“Well, yeah. But Morgan’ll speak up whenever he thinks things are going south.” Reid enjoyed the hobby of observation as much as anyone. It was nice to have someone interested with whom he could share some of his insight into the team.

“Sometimes they butt heads. In the end, though, Morgan respects Hotch.” Reid shook his head. “You wouldn’t think it, but sometimes it’s as though they share some kind of common bond. More than just a job-thing. But they never hang out together or anything.” He finished in a musing tone, uncertain of the reasons behind some of the conclusions he’d drawn.

Marty saw Rossi glance toward the youngest agent. It was the look of a man wondering just how much knowledge the other has. _So, Dave’s the repository for **all** their secrets. Or at least more than just Aaron’s. Interesting. He fills a fatherly position of authority with more than one, but Aaron’s his favorite. Interesting._

Rossi added a pot of tea to Garcia’s assemblage of more than Hotch would ever be able to finish. When he picked the tray up, the others shifted, giving him questioning looks.

“Should we come with you?” Prentiss asked, wondering if it was time for the intervention to begin.

“No. Let him eat first.” There was no room for doubt in Rossi’s voice. “We’ll begin when he’s done. Sorry about the delay, but he doesn’t eat much. It won’t take long.”

There was a general settling back into place. Reid muttered something about not rushing Hotch; letting him take as long as he wanted….and maybe he’d need a nap beforehand…or maybe they could come back another day.

Rossi gave him a sympathetic look as he backed out of the kitchen door, balancing the overfull tray. “Reid, it’ll be alright. If you don’t want to speak up, you don’t have to. But we should all be present. So he knows.”

“Knows what?” Spencer’s anxieties about dredging up the past were surfacing in his querulous, frustrated tone. “Knows that some mean things were said about him, and everyone’s sorry?” He grimaced, looking down, regretting sounding defeatist. “That’s not going to make any difference to him.”

“That’s not what we’re gonna do, Spence.” J.J.’s gentle reprimand had the power to cut through Reid’s exasperation.

He looked up at the liaison, hoping for guidance and reassurance in what was coming.

“We’re going to make him understand that those bad qualities are necessary; how valuable they are for us as a team. And then we’ll tell him his good qualities.” J.J. sighed. “Some of it I’ve told him before, but I guess it wears off, or he doesn’t hear, or something…”

“Well, he’ll hear it this time.” Prentiss rose from her chair, headed for the coffee pot and a fresh cup. “If we have to take turns sitting on him to keep him still…he’s gonna hear it this time.”

Rossi smiled as he left with Aaron’s breakfast. _I thought about sitting on him from the start. A team squash. Might just do it._

He raised his eyes to the second floor. _But I sincerely hope I don’t get up there to find Morgan’s already flattened the poor guy. He should at least get a last meal._


	45. Intervention Interruptus

Rossi entered the bedroom to see Morgan and Hotch sitting side by side.

He noted both men’s grim expressions. Setting the tray down, he tried to read the emotional temperature surrounding them.

“You boys need a referee?”

“What?” Morgan snapped back from whatever thoughts had preoccupied him. “Uh…no. No, we’re fine. Right?” He looked at Hotch’s profile, giving his shoulder a companionable squeeze.

Hotch nodded, unsmiling.

“Well, I brought you some breakfast, Aaron. Eat up.”

The look Hotch gave the savory dishes steaming on top of the tray indicated his appetite had, once again, fled. He went back to staring at the floor, but the others got the sense that he wasn’t gazing absentmindedly. He was working something out.

Feeling responsible, at least in part, for the Unit Chief’s lack of desire for food, Morgan stood up. He gave Hotch’s shoulder a last easy shake. “Meant what I said, man…”

“Wh _y_?” Aaron interrupted, looking around at both the others. His voice began with a hoarse, but recognizable scratchy quality, but cracked before he could finish even the one word. Still, Morgan and Rossi understood well enough.

“ ‘Why’ what, Aaron?” Rossi poured a cup of hot tea, placing it in his friend’s hand. He gave it an encouraging nudge toward Hotch’s lips, hoping the liquid would soothe his throat, making it easier to talk.

“Wh _y_ ’s th’ te _am_ ‘ere?” He sipped, hating the squeak in his voice. It made him sound adolescent, as though he hadn’t attained his full baritone yet. It wasn’t the sound of someone in command.

Morgan shot Rossi an uncomfortable glance. “I’m gonna go get some coffee.” He moved toward the door.

Rossi called after him. “You’re coming back, right?”

Morgan gave Hotch a long, concerned look. “Maybe. Yeah. I guess.”

Rossi frowned, unsure what had changed during the time he’d been bringing Aaron’s meal. Morgan had seemed to be all in when it came to the idea of an intervention. Once he was gone, Rossi could feel Hotch’s eyes fixed on him. The question of the team’s presence still hovered, unanswered. He sighed. Picking up a fork and a plate of Garcia’s eggs-‘n’-cheese dish, he sat beside Hotch, forcing him to either take the food or see it spill to the ground when he pressed it into the Unit Chief’s hands.

“Tell you what. You at least make an effort to get some of that into you, and we’ll talk about it.”

Hotch shivered, the fever still playing havoc with his body’s internal thermostat. Rossi picked up a comforter, draping it over his friend’s shoulders. He watched him making small, desultory patterns in the eggs, finally forking up a bite.

After a deep sigh, Rossi began. “The theme of the day, Aaron, is honesty. Honesty and love…believe it or not.”

Hotch swallowed audibly, nerves impacting his attempt to eat.

“The team’s here because we’re worried about you and we want to help you, but we don’t know how. So they want to talk to you.” Hotch stared at him, eyes dark and troubled. Rossi hastened on. “You don’t have to say anything, if you don’t want to. But please listen. Okay? Can you do that?”

Fear, defensiveness, worry…it was hard to read the emotion deep within the glance Hotch gave before returning to the sculpture he was creating out of Garcia’s dish. It was laced with enough cheese to enable the construction of a small igloo formation. Rossi watched him for a moment.

“You’re really not going to eat, are you…”

It wasn’t a question, rather a sad confirmation of the evidence. Hotch’s only reply was another shiver. Rossi put an arm around his shoulders.

“I know you still don’t feel good, Aaron. But they’ve all come here hoping to touch bases with you and maybe make you feel better. Let them, okay?” Rossi played his trump card. “And it might make _them_ feel better, too. So…please?”

Hotch’s eyes closed for a moment, but when they opened again, he gave a single nod. If it was in his power to bolster his team’s welfare, he would force himself to endure what he suspected would be an extremely uncomfortable encounter.

“Good. I’ll get them.” Standing, Rossi patted the back of his friend’s bowed head. “Eat, Aaron. Please.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Alright, children. Let’s do this.”

Rossi had retraced his steps to the kitchen, taking his time, hoping that Hotch would use it to eat at least a little.

“Okay. Here we go.” Prentiss snagged the gift bag she’d prepared and made a purposeful way toward the staircase. She wasn’t sure if this would be an appropriate time to give anything to Hotch, but she told herself it might be. It was an effort to feel optimistic about what was coming.

Somber expressions and slow movements marked the others’ progress as they followed. Reid was the last, evincing the most reluctance. He trailed behind Garcia, whose speed was dictated by her four-inch glitter-spangled platforms.

Marty wished them luck. He would have liked to attend, but this sounded like a team activity. He was content to remain behind with Jack and the dogs.

Prentiss had reached the landing, the rest straggling behind her, Reid last, when his sharp voice rose in protest.

“No. No. Sorry, guys. I can’t do this.”

The rest of the team stopped, looking back at him. Their quizzical expressions were enough for the youngest agent to feel justified in pouring out his concerns, voice escalating, echoing through Rossi’s spacious foyer.

“This is wrong.” He locked eyes with J.J.. “You told me how you felt about the barrier Morgan put up for Jack’s room to keep them apart. You _hated_ it. You _refused_ it. Well…this is the same thing!”

He cast worried, pleading looks at the rest of his co-workers. “We’re trapping him. This isn’t what he needs. It’s what _we_ need. To know that he’s okay. And we won’t give him our stupid seal of approval unless he’s what we want him to be.”

“That’s not what we’re doing! Reid?” Prentiss raised her own voice to override that of her young colleague. “He needs to be forced to see himself in real light, not whatever twisted beam he’s using.”

“Well, he’s never forced me to do anything. And I’m not gonna do that to him.” Reid shook his head, turning to retreat back to the ground floor. “People aren’t like that! They’re just not! You can’t change them that way!”

Midway through the young agent’s tirade, Rossi’s phone went off. Eyes still on Reid, he extracted it from his pocket, giving it a quick glance, intending to let the call go to voicemail. But the incoming text message wasn’t one that could be ignored.

_Don’t let Reid leave while he’s upset. Send him in here. BTW, nice acoustics, Dave. I can hear everything you guys are saying._

The angry, young genius had only gone a few steps when Rossi’s voice ran him down.

“Spencer!” He kept descending, one determined step after another. “Reid!” He continued. “Agent Reid! Your boss wants to see you! Now!”

That did it.

Reid turned in slow motion, a look of dread on his face. “What?”

Rossi gestured with his phone. “Hotch texted that he wants to see you. Alone, I presume.” Confused looks were shared all around, but when Reid hovered, seemingly torn between obeying the call of his leader or bolting for freedom, Rossi gave him a verbal push. “You’re welcome to read it, but it sounded like an order, Agent.”

Lips compressed, Reid marched his way back up, brushing past his teammates, grumbling that none of this had been _his_ idea…so he didn’t see why _he_ was the one being punished for it.

Before disappearing through Hotch’s doorway, he treated his colleagues to a look that would have made Hotch swell with pride and consider making Reid his glare-protégé.

The others milled about for a moment. When Prentiss sank down, taking a seat on the top step, the rest followed suit, spacing themselves out on the wide, marble stairs.

“Wonder what’s going on in there.” J.J. voiced what they were all thinking.

“He heard us.” Rossi sighed, a shrug accompanying his interpretation. “Hotch heard Reid getting upset. He wasn’t looking forward to this talk we planned, but when he heard one of his team in trouble, he stepped in to do his best to fix it. Just like he always does.”

Morgan echoed his sigh. “Man’s sick and we’re supposed to help him. What happens? He comes to Reid’s rescue.”

“Typical Hotch.”

No one thought it strange that the last statement had been spoken simultaneously by everyone present.


	46. Spencer Speaks

Reid eased the door to Hotch’s room open, peering in with all the trepidation of a man entering a lion’s den. A man bereft of even the questionable protection of the clichéd whip and chair. And a large, not-particularly-happy lion.

But when he saw the lion, it looked like a fractured, depleted version of itself. And it’s roar squeaked. Yet it still maintained a certain air of dignified nobility.

Hotch hadn’t used the time since Rossi’s departure for eating. He’d expended a little more of his precious store of energy rummaging through his go-bag, finding a pair of sweat pants, and dragging them on. Whatever was coming, he didn’t want to face it in his boxers. He would have preferred the full armor of a suit and a nice, perfectly-knotted tie… _But any port in a storm_ , he tried to comfort himself. Donning the pants might have made him feel a little more prepared, but it didn’t have quite the effect for which he’d been hoping.

When Reid’s eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he sighed.

Yes, Hotch was wearing a bit more than when he’d made his alarming appearance downstairs, but the effort did nothing to enhance. If anything, the way the sweats hung off his hipbones made him look even more pathetic. Bordering on waif-like. And when he drew himself up and nodded toward the chair by the bed, indicating Reid should take a seat, the younger agent scanned the length of his leader’s body…and disobeyed.

Reid went to the bed, flipping the covers back and plumping the pillows into a pile against the headboard. He turned to Hotch and assumed as professorial a stance as he thought he could pull off, despite the frowning surveillance tracking his every move.

“You need to lie down before you fall down.” Reid’s large eyes, unable to dissemble without extreme effort, signaled genuine concern. “You don’t look so good, Hotch. Please…”

The Unit Chief nodded, relenting. This day had already been draining, and he had no idea how much more was in store for him. Besides, he was glad to see his youngest agent had calmed down a little with something else to draw his focus. _If looking after me makes it easier for him, I’ll let him._

Hotch brushed away the vagrant echo from somewhere in the past when Prentiss had informed him of the need to let his pack nuzzle him for reassurance and comfort whenever he’d been downed.

But Prentiss would have grinned. It was exactly what her boss was doing instinctively, trying to help the pup of the pack by letting the pup help its alpha.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Out on the stairs, Rossi observed his teammates.

A general reluctance had settled over them like fog, softening their resolve, graying their bright expectations. He examined each one in turn.

Something had transpired in the short time he’d left Morgan alone with Hotch. Knowing their respective backgrounds, he could make a shrewd guess that it had touched on the lingering effects of an abusive upbringing. Clearly, it had influenced Morgan’s desire to participate in an intervention, and it had also affected Hotch’s appetite…never a good sign, yet an all too frequent one. This was neither the time nor place to question Morgan about it. His childhood was a private matter, deserving of respect and discretion.

J.J. was lost in thought, no doubt turning Reid’s accusation over and over in her mind; trying to equate intervention with the child-proof barrier she had vetoed. Rossi watched her struggle, but didn’t interrupt.

 ** _Is_** _it the same?_ She chewed on her bottom lip and frowned. _Morgan wanted to cage Jack, but we want to free Hotch._ She knew Reid’s intellect always probed deeper than the rest of them. Reid could attain in his first try what it took others several attempts to decipher. _But…what if it’s about control? Morgan wanted to control Jack, and we want to control Hotch’s perception of himself. Is that it?_ She shook her head. Dissatisfied and unsure, she continued to look for additional angles to explore.

Prentiss was on the top step, leaning her back against a wall, eyes closed. To all outward appearances she was calm, almost meditative. Rossi smiled. He had immense admiration and respect for the alpha female. Once given a goal… set on a scent…few things could deter her from following through. Even now, he imagined she was biding her time like a predator whose quarry has taken refuge, but will ultimately come out into the open. There was a professional quality to everything she did. But beneath the surface, Rossi sensed the same conflicted nobility that lurked in Hotch. He was the only one who knew the secrets of Emily’s childhood. It had not been abusive, but it had contained its own brand of trauma.

Marty had been right. Rossi was the guardian of his clan’s hidden pasts. Each piece of pain they entrusted to him, just made him appreciate who they’d become all the more.

Last, his eye fell on Garcia, in many ways the most vulnerable. She fidgeted with her bracelets, rings, the beads of her necklace…anything to keep herself occupied…casting concerned glances toward the closed door through with Reid had disappeared. Garcia wasn’t subject to the same things that motivated the others. Evidence and theories and missions be damned…she would follow her heart, trusting it to lead her where she was meant to be. Because she put it out front, it was an often battered heart. But it was also indomitable. Even if injured, it rose again and again, pressing onward with the kind of complete faith and determination that made Rossi consider Garcia to be the strongest of them all when it came to taking emotional risks. _It’s not vulnerability she broadcasts_ , he thought. _It’s willingness. Willingness to leap…and to trust that at some point, one’s wings will open. Or…one will enjoy the fall._

 _And then there’s me._ He sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. _I just want each one of these children to be happy in the end. No matter where their paths lead them. But most of all Aaron. He’s mine. God alone knows why, but he touches my heart._

Rossi looked up at the closed door.

_He’s mine._

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Wh _a_ ’s go _in_ ’ _on_ , R _eid_?”

It was difficult to hear Hotch, so Reid pulled his chair closer.

He’d managed to settle his boss in bed, even freshening his cup of tea and coaxing him to take a few sips. But now Hotch wanted to know, to understand, what was happening with his team. And why its junior member was shouting in Rossi’s staidly quiet mansion.

If only to spare the man’s tired voice, Reid began to talk.

“They wanna do sort of an intervention with you, Hotch.” The Unit Chief’s brows rose, inviting more. “It’s not that you’re doing anything bad…well…you _are_ , kind of…but…it’s…well…uh…”

“ _Re_ id! _Ta_ ke your t _ime_.”

The younger agent nodded, composing himself. He knew what he wanted to say. It was just that his brain moved so much faster than the mechanics of speech, he often stumbled in his desire to communicate with the same succinct elegance as his mind worked.

“They want you to see yourself in a better light. Right now they think you take too much blame and not enough credit. You mourn, but you don’t celebrate. And you try to handle everything yourself instead of asking for help….You’ll give orders, assign duties, but you don’t ask for help for yourself….And I think they’d like to give it, even if you don’t want it.” He finished sadly, contemplating his own hands, avoiding the dreaded stare of the dark eyes that knew too much; had seen too much; suffered too much.

After a pause…“ _An_ d y _ou_? _Do_ n’ agr _ee_?”

Reid shook his still-bowed head. “No. Not like that, anyway.” He risked a brief glance before looking down again. He’d seen some pain in Hotch’s face. But a willingness to listen. Always a willingness to listen to anyone who needed to be heard.

“Everyone admires you, Hotch. But I think you’re the strongest man I’ve ever met.” He shot another quick glance, but saw only an open invitation to continue. Reid took a deep breath.

“Not muscle-wise. But inside…within yourself. The thing is, you’re strongest when you’re fighting for others. When it comes to yourself, you step it down a little…let yourself get hurt more than needs to happen…let things be more difficult than they have to be.” He bit his lip, turning his head toward the door beyond which his colleagues waited, hoping to subject Hotch to some kind of group effort.

“Nobody’s perfect. We all have emotional baggage we’re dragging behind us. So, I don’t think they’ve looked deep enough…or maybe they’ve looked in the wrong place. But I think we’re all on the same page about you in the end. It’s just how they wanna get there that I really, _really_ disagree…” His voice had started to scale upward again.

“ _Re_ id…”

“Sorry.” He was studying his hands again, kneading the knuckles. After a moment, Reid realized he would have said all this to the others if he’d felt they’d listen without cutting him off or arguing. But Hotch knew the art of being still. How it encouraged and empowered. It was a leader’s skill. And Reid loved that about him. He felt the turmoil and conflict resolve itself into the right words in Hotch’s quiet presence. He looked up.

“They haven’t figured it out yet, Hotch, but they _don’t_ want to change you. They just want you to share more. Or, at least…that’s how _I_ feel.”

Looking downward again, Reid’s eye fell on Marty’s little, black medical bag, on the floor, tucked up against the nightstand. A rare opportunity beckoned. Reid brightened.

“Ohhhhh…cool….Hotch? Can I examine you?”

He would have liked a little more time to absorb Reid’s words, but the Unit Chief decided maybe now would be a good time to bring in the others.


	47. Team Motivation

While Reid couldn’t resist poking through Marty’s medical bag, fascinated by the antiquity of it, as well as its contents, Hotch took the opportunity to process some of what his junior agent had said, and fortify himself with more tea.

When Reid donned a stethoscope and darted a wistful glance at Hotch’s chest, the Unit Chief decided it was time to take the next step. Hotch had no idea what he wanted to say, but he was certain that some form of group communication needed to take place. If his entire team was concerned enough to stage a confrontation, then he needed to pursue the impulse that had set them on this track. There had to be a resolution, otherwise the distance between him and those he was supposed to lead would widen in an unacceptable manner.

“Re _id._ ”

Spencer looked up, eyes full of the hope that Hotch had changed his mind and would let him listen to his internal organs.

“G _et_ the _oth_ ers, pl _ea_ se.”

Hopes dashed, but stethoscope still dangling from his neck, Reid went to the door. He’d intended to call his colleagues in, but when they saw him, Morgan motioned for him to join them on the landing. A quick glance back let him see Hotch had closed his eyes. He was leaning his head back, gathering himself for whatever came next. Reid pulled the door to as quietly as he could and joined the group loitering on the stairs.

Morgan eyed the medical equipment gracing Reid’s neck like a Tim Burton nightmare tie.

“So where are we, Pretty Boy? What went on in there?”

Having said his piece already, Reid’s anxiety at confronting Hotch was behind him. He raised his chin with the confidence that relief had bestowed upon him. “I told him how I felt. That’s what we’re here for, and…I’m sorry, guys, but I just couldn’t _ambush_ him that way. I’m sorry.” He received a few nods and murmured words of agreement. “Well, he’d like to see everyone now.”

Morgan pulled himself up from where he’d been sitting, groaning a little at muscles gone stiff. “We wanna make sure we’re all on the same page. That’s all.” His voice lowered. “I called him a drill sergeant that time he asked us to list his bad qualities. I didn’t get a chance to tell him that’s what we _need_ when we’re in the field.”

“Don’t you think he knows that?” Prentiss brushed at the seat of her pants out of habit…Rossi’s floors were immaculate.

“I dunno. I never told any of you guys, but he brought it up again. Months later.”

“What? When?” Garcia’s concern was palpable. She hadn’t been so sure that Hotch was in need of validation as much as everyone seemed to think. But if he was holding onto verbal slights and still chewing on them after months, that was concrete proof that their words _had_ hurt him…or at least lodged in an unhealthy crevice in his psyche.

“It was when he put in for that transfer. He said that maybe our next Unit Chief wouldn’t be such a drill sergeant.” Morgan shook his head, eyes distracted…feeling again the shock at seeing his boss taking leave of the job they knew he loved.

“Wow.” J.J. rubbed her eyes. “I didn’t know that.” She pursed her lips, expelling a long, slow breath. “I called him a bully.”

“I said he didn’t trust women as much as men.” Prentiss repeated her contribution to the bash Hotch session.

“And he started it out by saying he had no sense of humor…which isn’t true. Not entirely, anyway.” Morgan took a deep breath. “Ah, hell. We’re losing focus and purpose. Exactly what _never_ happens when Hotch’s in charge.”

“You still want to do this?” Rossi was feeling a change in the group resolve. He didn’t want to betray any confidences with which Hotch had entrusted him, but he did feel the need to direct the team back to the reason he and Marty thought this intervention appropriate.

The looks he got were undecided.

“You’re not just here to apologize to Hotch for saying something that might have been more hurtful than anyone realized at the time.” Rossi sighed. “You’re here to keep him from continuing down a road where he feels if he’s not perfect, he’s not worthy of...well…much.”

He stopped short of delving too deeply into Hotch’s private doubts about the kind of father he wanted to be, but feared he wasn’t; about the kind of son he believed he’d been; about the kind of leader he struggled to be.

“He’s harder on himself than is healthy. I think you guys see him more clearly than he sees himself sometimes. Just try to give him some of your perspective. Marty and I thought he might be more apt to listen if everyone was involved. What you say might give what we’ve tried to tell him some additional authentication.”

Rossi looked from face to face. “Think you can do that? Make him see he’s not falling short…at least where you guys are concerned?”

The responses were muted. Although everyone present supported Hotch without reservation, Rossi’s summation of their mission left a lot unsaid. A lot between the lines. A lot that they might never know in detail. But Hotch’s best friend setting this up had to mean that it was more important than they were being told.

Each agent’s mind went off on tangents fueled by their own pasts and their own relationships with Hotch.

With a renewed, if not completely defined, sense of purpose, they filed in to see their boss.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Upon entering the bedroom, Morgan surprised all present, including Hotch, by walking to the far side of the man’s bed, taking up a position standing beside the headboard, facing the others.

Rossi hid a smile. _He’s demonstrating he’s got Hotch’s back. He’s standing guard against whatever threat might come._

The Unit Chief glanced up as Morgan rested the heel of one hand on his shoulder, its fingers spreading downward over his collarbone.

“Here’s how it works.” Morgan’s voice brooked no dispute. “We can all have our say, but if m’man starts to fade, I’m calling it quits for everyone. Got it?”

No one was going to argue with Morgan in protective mode. And everyone was glad when he went first.

“Hotch, we just wanna get some things straight with you. And since it’s kinda hard to pin you down and keep you still when we’re at work, this seemed like a good opportunity.” He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly.

“A while back I called you a drill sergeant…” Morgan could feel Hotch’s muscles flinch beneath his fingers. He responded by pushing back against the tension. It was a physical way of saying _Don’t deny it…we both know it bothered you._

“Thing is, if you _weren’t_ like that, you couldn’t do your job. Thing is, if I ever decide to take one of the leadership positions they keep offering, I’m gonna be the same way. Because I understand it. Because it works. And because I admire the man who taught it to me. It’s gonna sound dumb…” Morgan’s eyes scanned the other occupants of the room. Like a leader, he was setting the example for the others to follow. “…but I guess this is the place, and these are the people, and now is the time when it’s okay to sound dumb. As long as it’s an honest dumb.” He squeezed Hotch’s shoulder again. “I like you, man. And you gotta know: whatever hell you’ve been through, I’m glad…if that’s what it took to make you like you are. And I’ll take anyone down who says you’re not the best damn Unit Chief the Bureau’s ever had.”

Hotch had twisted his neck around to see Morgan while he spoke. The scowl was absent. The eyes were unguarded, but not completely comprehending.

Rossi kept careful watch. _He’s listening…gathering information. Probably going to store it up and examine it, pick it over when he’s alone. And he’s a little surprised, but I think in a good way._ He nodded to himself. _Good. So far, so good._

Morgan and Hotch locked eyes for a few seconds. Neither blinked. Neither looked uncomfortable. When Morgan smiled and broke the connection, Hotch turned away, too, a distant look in his eye.

“Okay.” Morgan raised his chin and looked out at the rest of the team. “The name of the game is honesty. And it’s okay to sound dumb.

"Who’s next?”


	48. Of Trust and Bullies

Prentiss moved in with the smoothness of a panther. She took a seat on the mattress, only inches separating her face from Hotch’s.

“Me. I’m next.”

Morgan’s hand tightened involuntarily on Hotch’s shoulder. _Jeez, Prentiss. I was only kidding. Please don’t kiss him...Please don’t kiss him...Please don’t…_

A wry grin creased Emily’s lips as she saw Hotch flinch from the force of Derek’s grip. “Oh, lighten up, Morgan. I just don’t feel like standing over him and talking down at him. And go easy or you’re gonna tear his arm out of the socket.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing her colleague’s fingers do an abrupt release. But the hand didn’t entirely desert Hotch’s shoulder. _Probably so he can wrest him away from me if I go berserk and attack._ Emily shot a conspiratorial glance at J.J.. They’d long suspected that the men were just a tiny bit more cautious around female agents…women who were armed…than they’d admit. _And maybe they should be, ‘cause it **is** kind of fun to mess with them. A little. Now and then._

Hotch hadn’t strayed from watching Prentiss. She gave Morgan one more reprimanding look and then concentrated on the dark eyes inches from her own.

“H-o-t-c-h.” Her voice caressed his name. But Morgan detected nothing sensual in her tone. It was more like affectionate care; like gentling a feral animal. Still, he cupped his boss’ shoulder protectively.

“H-o-t-c-h…I’m gonna get kind of personal with you, because this isn’t the office, and Morgan laid down the ground rules: honesty, even if it’s dumb.” Hotch swallowed, but didn’t blink. “I told you once that I didn’t think you trusted women as much as you trusted men.” She saw Morgan’s hand rub the shoulder with a message of support… _And maybe agreement_ … in her peripheral vision.

“What I _didn’t_ get a chance to say is that I think I understand why. The way I see it, when men have hurt you, it’s been mostly physical.” She gave her head a small shake, temporizing her words. “I know you’ve been hurt psychologically, too. You haven’t gotten off scot-free. But when a man is involved, you expect, if he hurts you, it’ll be first and foremost, a physical wound.”

Her voice lowered; a note of sadness darkening it. “But when women have hurt you, it’s been on a deeper, emotional level. And you never see it coming, because you’re not built like that. And because the women who’ve hurt you should have been the ones you could trust most. So the pain is worse and lasts longer than what you expect from men who attack you.”  

Hotch shivered. Morgan leaned around, trying to get a better angle on his face, wondering if it was fever or truth that made him tremble, wondering if he’d already reached his limit and it was time to call a halt.

Prentiss closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, they were shadowed, sorrowful. “H-o-t-c-h…I’m sorry you feel that way, but I don’t blame you. And I think we all understand when you’re hurting you like to do it in private. That’s okay. But we’ll still keep an eye on you. You can’t stop us from wanting to show you we care about what you’re going through, even if it’s just a hand on your shoulder…”

She glanced up at Morgan, who no longer looked worried that she might try anything untoward. “…or some cookies…” Garcia couldn’t help a small, breathy ‘oh.’

“…or this…” And before Derek had time to interpret her movement, Emily leaned to the side and pressed a feather-light, sisterly kiss on Hotch’s temple. She pulled back and caught his eyes again.

“I’m with Morgan: if the things that have happened to you made you what you are, then I’m all in. ‘Cause you’re better than fine, Hotch. But…” She paused, making sure he was paying attention. “…but…I’ll go one further. I think what you are at your heart, at your core, survives in _spite_ of what’s happened to you.”

Prentiss stood, touching light fingers to Hotch’s other shoulder. “And for that, I’m very grateful.” Her smile was brief, but warm. Hotch’s lips twitched, but he didn’t quite echo the expression. Emily broke the rapt silence that had fallen by giving Morgan a mischievous raised brow. _I kissed him, Derek. Bite me._

Morgan would have chuckled, giving the devil her due, but he felt the shoulder beneath his hand shudder again. Leaning down, he spoke close to Hotch’s ear. “You alright, man? Need a break?”

Wordless, Hotch shook his head. He darted a look at Rossi, but didn’t keep it long enough to see his friend’s small nod; tacit approval for letting his team speak without making them feel awkward. _But it might just be that he’s pulling in on himself and isn’t letting anything show while he’s ‘under attack.’_

Rossi sighed, deciding he and Marty would do some follow-up work on Hotch no matter where this intervention led.

Morgan straightened, accepting his leader’s willingness to continue. “Who’s next?”

J.J. stepped up, taking the place Prentiss had vacated.

Although assuming the same position, the quality of her presence was as different as feathers from fur. Emily’s profile of Hotch’s relationship with the fairer sex aside, J.J. was a female with whom he felt safe. Once, he had tried to put his finger on why, but as soon as the profile started forming in his mind, he banished it. He didn’t want to look too closely. He didn’t want to know the secret. He just wanted to enjoy the gentle quiet that surrounded her and, when he was nearby, enveloped him.

The way the two were postured, not even Morgan saw J.J.’s small hand take a place over Hotch’s wrist, her thumb stroking the sharp bone at its side. She kept her eyes averted, composing herself. When a few moments had passed and she felt Hotch’s wrist relax, J.J. looked up at him from under her lashes.

Her voice was low, private. Even if the others could hear, it felt as though the sound of J.J.’s words worked a spell where nothing bad could happen. No misunderstandings. No emotional upheavals. Nothing to be afraid of. Just people helping people. Family.

“Hotch…I said you could be a bully sometimes.” Hotch started to shake his head; for the first time looking as though he wanted to interrupt. He stopped when J.J. squeezed his wrist. “No. Let me.”

Morgan felt the shoulder relax, responding to the liaison’s innate ability to establish calm, serenity.

“There were a couple of things I didn’t tell you, though. First, I recognize that in you, because it’s in me, too.”

Hotch’s eyes widened. He even glanced around at the others. It was inconceivable that gentle J.J. could be capable of the bluster and push and domination that were the hallmarks of bullying. Her lips stretched, amused at how all these profilers hadn’t seen the pieces of her past buried beneath the placid exterior she cultivated in order to do her job.

“I told you once, Hotch. Being in a small town is a battle. All eyes are watching. It’s a cage where all the animals are biting and scratching each other. If you want to get out, you have to claw and fight and be the best…even if there are others who might be naturally better than you are.” Her steady gaze was locked on Hotch’s.

“I wanted out. So I fought harder for it than any of the others. And that meant pushing some people down as I pulled my way up. I bullied. I’m good at it. And I was much worse about using it than you are. When _you_ bully, Hotch, it’s to accomplish something on someone else’s behalf. You do it to solve a case; to catch a killer, a rapist, a monster. I did it for me. Just me.”

J.J. watched bafflement and recognition war in Hotch’s eyes. She pressed on his wrist, reclaiming his focus.

“I also said ‘sometimes’ you’re a bully. The rest of the time you make me wonder how a man with such a soft heart…so much kindness in him…so much consideration…can do this job so well. It took me a while to figure it out.” Her smile was slow and sly. “That kindness is your strength. And it’s a lot more solid and unassailable than the kind of power that comes from a forceful, mean place. And it makes people trust you and want to follow you.”

“So…that’s the kind of bully you are, Hotch. A good one. As good as they come.”

With the natural ease of friendship, J.J. leaned over and brushed her own kiss on top of the one left by Prentiss. She stood, patting Hotch’s wrist, and retreated back to the fringes of the group; a place she preferred now that she’d escaped the magnified scrutiny of her small town past.

Morgan was about to call the next teammate, but felt Hotch shiver again. This time, he moved to where he could crouch down and look into his face. “Man, you still up for this?”

The Unit Chief nodded. “‘M o _kay_ …” His voice cracked.

“Rossi.”

The older agent moved to the bedside, flashing Morgan an inquisitive look.

Morgan tilted his head toward Hotch. “He look okay to you?” Rossi knelt down, peering into the sick man’s eyes.

“Aaron?” Hotch focused on his friend after blinking a few times. Rossi shook his head. “He didn’t eat breakfast and he’s still got that high fever. Let’s give him a break. Get some tea and maybe some food into him.”

Morgan turned to address the others. “Let’s take twenty, guys.” His eyes shifted among them. “Garcia’s the only one left. You can wait, can’t you, Baby Girl?”

“Hey!” Reid pulled himself erect, looking discomfited. “I still have some stuff I wanna say, too.”

Morgan chuckled. “Okay. We’re gonna give Boss-man a few, then Baby Girl _and_ Pretty Boy can have a turn.”

Rossi stayed by Hotch’s side as the others wandered off, intent on refreshing themselves and mulling over what had been said so far. When Hotch gave his friend a weak smile, Rossi returned it, handing him a cup of tepid tea.

_At least he didn’t apologize for needing a minute to rest. Every time we circumvent a ‘sorry,’ it’s a small victory. So far, so good. But still a long ways to go._


	49. Grief à la Garcia

Marty looked up when he heard the cadence of multiple feet thumping their way down the stairs.

From his place on the patio, he tried to gage the temperament of the team as they made their way into the kitchen. _If I had to describe them in one word, it would be ‘subdued.’ Or maybe ‘contemplative.’_  The old doctor nodded to himself. _Not bad, but still feels like a work-in-progress. There’s no sense of resolution._

He shrugged. He hadn’t really expected that kind of ending. Aaron was on the journey of a lifetime. _For all the energy and care we put into him, it might only push him a short way down the long road he needs to travel._

He glanced to where Jack had fallen asleep in the sun, nestled between two large, dozing dogs. Washed out by the clear light, the boy’s rash looked faded, almost gone. _Couple more days and he won’t be a Leopard anymore._

A ripple of sadness washed over Marty. The child wanted connection with the father so desperately. And, although the impulse was mutual, he didn’t think Aaron grasped how deep his son’s commitment to him ran. _He doesn’t understand how much a father can be loved, because his own was such a regrettable monster. Ah, well. Can’t change what’s past. Let’s go see how the present’s doing._

He groaned as he levered himself out of his chair and went to meet Aaron’s people.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“That went well, don’tcha think?” Prentiss headed for the coffee pot.

“So far.” Morgan personified Marty’s assessment of being ‘contemplative,’ eyes distant, response somewhat absentminded.

Emily glanced at J.J.. She’d expected a more enthusiastic reaction. In true Prentiss fashion, if the lion seemed to be sleeping, she’d prod it to make sure. “Sooooo…Derek. Scary thing: I _kissed_ him...and lived to tell.” She poured her coffee, keeping Morgan in the corner of her eye. “…And the sun’s still shining…And the stars will still be in the sky tonight…” Morgan shrugged. Nothing.

“And _J.J._ kissed him…and…” Prentiss looked around to where Garcia was fidgeting with her bracelets, looking more distracted than her Chocolate God. “…and _Penelope_ will probably kiss him…”

“Huh? What?” Garcia jumped at hearing her name. “Oh, uh…yeah. Sure. Maybe. Probably…I…I dunno.”

Ear tuned to his Baby Girl’s distressed dithering, Morgan returned from wherever his thoughts had taken him. “G-a-r-c-i-a? What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothing. Nope. Nada. Nothing.” She pushed fuchsia frames farther up the bridge of her nose, eyes darting about, looking a bit like a frantic bunny. “I just…I’m gonna take something…” Her glance fell on the containers lining the countertop, filled with cookies, brownies and other sweet treats. “I’m gonna take this up to Captain-My-Captain.” She snagged a citrus-yellow box and fled the kitchen.

The other three agents exchanged puzzled looks. Marty’s calm voice intruded on them.

“I think Miss Garcia wants a private audience with your boss.”

Morgan went to the kitchen door, pushing it open to track the tech analyst. The first thing that caught his eye was the bright spot of yellow…the container of cookies…abandoned on a small table at the foot of the stairs.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Garcia wasn’t sure why she felt the need to resort to subterfuge, concealing her desire to see Hotch alone.

In fact, she wasn’t sure herself why she wanted some one-on-one time. All she knew was that her emotions were roiling about inside her like an unpredictable maelstrom, and the force was propelling her upstairs. And she just really, really, _really_ needed to see the stern face of her Hotch-rocket.

She left the cookies behind, needing both hands to steady herself against the banister as she navigated the wide, marble steps in her extraordinary, edgy, totally impractical, footwear.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi waited until the others had left before taking a seat at Hotch’s bedside.

When the younger man closed his eyes and expelled a long, shaky breath, Dave leaned forward, brushing the hair back from the too-warm forehead. Recalling Marty’s words earlier, Rossi tried to offer, if not comfort, then acceptance.

“Remember, Aaron: your emotional control is weakened, same as your body.”

Hotch concentrated on breathing. Really, what he wanted most was to cuddle down with Jack and play one of childhood’s games where, if you were brave and good, you could count on winning. After a moment he tried to talk.

“ ‘F my t _ea_ m ‘s th _is_ wor _ried_ ‘bout _me_ …” He opened his eyes, shaking his head to show Rossi what a bad portent he considered the entire situation.

“If your team is this worried about you, it means they care about you. It doesn’t mean they’ve lost confidence in you…idiot.” Rossi’s smile was sad. He hoped this was just Aaron’s knee-jerk reaction; a reflexive response that would melt away once he had time to replay his colleagues’ words in the privacy of his own mind. And once that mind was free of fever. He was about to say so when he saw Hotch’s brows rise and his eyes widen. He twisted, looking over his shoulder to see what had claimed his friend’s attention.

Garcia teetered in the doorway, wringing her hands. Her expression was an amalgam of indecision and tragedy. Even from a distance, even through the thick lenses of her glasses, even in the muted lighting, the men could read the anxiety and incipient tears in her eyes.

“Penelope?” Rossi’s one word conveyed a world of concern. Hotch’s face was an appropriate counterpoint; the visual expression of Rossi’s audible one.

Garcia risked an uncertain step past the threshold. “Oh…sirs…I’m so sorry. I just…I…I didn’t mean to interrupt, but…” She brought her clasped hands in front of her mouth, biting her lip and looking like a Technicolor chipmunk on the cusp of deciding whether to run to its burrow or stand up and fight for its nuts.

 “What’s wrong?” Rossi stood, turning toward her.

But it was Hotch’s completely uncharacteristic gesture that broke through, releasing Garcia from emotional paralysis. Hitching himself up straighter, Aaron extended his hands, palms up. It was the traditional signal that beckoned someone in dire need of comfort to come and take some.

Garcia accepted the pantomime invitation, mincing across the room to plop down in the same spot formerly occupied by Prentiss and J.J..

Hotch strained his voice to repeat Rossi’s question. “Wh _at_ ’s wr _ong_? Gar _cia_?”

“I’m just so sorry, sir! So very sorry…and I know I wasn’t part of what the others are talking about…I never said anything bad about you…but…oh, sir! I don’t know if you even heard me, but I was just so _mad_ …”

“ _Garcia!”_ Rossi tried to staunch the verbal flood that communicated emotion, but not much else.

“S-sir?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, I…uh…” She bit her lip, blinking at Hotch, who returned her gaze with a complete lack of understanding. “Well…it’s…um…”

Rossi looked from one to the other, finally grasping that Garcia had waited for the others to leave before speaking up. “Is this something you’d rather tell Hotch in private?”

Her relief was palpable. “Ohhhh… _yes_ , sir…please…”

Rossi backed away, hands up, warding off any more emotional tsunamis. “Okay. Alright. I’ll be downstairs. Just come get me when you’re finished.”

“Oh, thank you, sir. Yes. I will. Thank you.”

Rossi gave Hotch a last eloquent glance as he exited. _I have no idea what this is about…but you’re on your own, Aaron. Good luck._

 

xxxxxx

 

As Rossi’s footsteps faded, Garcia turned her full, focused attention on Hotch.

“Oh, sir. I don’t know if you heard any of it, but I’m _so_ sorry if you did. I was upset and mad at you…”

Hotch stared at his tech analyst, shaking his head. Holding up a hand, he stemmed the flow of words once more. “B _ack_ ground. Ne _ed_ backgr _oun_ d. Pl _ea_ se.”

“Oh…oh…okay. Of course. ‘Cause maybe you _didn’t_ hear. Sure.” She licked her lips, averting her eyes to the bedspread, taking a moment to rewind herself. When she looked up, Hotch met her with what he hoped was calm, encouraging regard.

“It was right after you got…you know…when Foyet…um…”

“St _abb_ ed me?”

A small whimper escaped the hot pink lips even as Garcia bit them. Nodding, her eyes were a little too moist for Hotch’s comfort. Rossi was right. He felt emotionally fragile. At the moment he wasn’t sure he could deal with another’s tears. He was relieved when Penelope swallowed the impulse and continued.

“Well…after I got off that day, I came to see you.” Her lip trembled, eyes filling once more. “And you were just so…so….Oh, sir…All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, sir…”

Despite fatigue and his own emotional overload, Hotch was fascinated. Listening to Garcia was like unraveling a puzzle that required one to take a few intuitive leaps to get from point A to point B. And this close, her physical aspect…the makeup and accessories…had a mesmerizing effect all their own on his fevered perceptions. She took his blank stare as an invitation to continue.

“And you were so still…and so pale…like…like you were…and I got scared…and…and…I got mad at you, so I…I… _yelled_ at you!” Garcia wailed her confession, punctuating it with a sob.

A tiny corner of Hotch’s mind perked up its ears, connecting the times in his childhood when he’d been yelled at, punished, for getting hurt or being sick. After the ingrained, primal frisson of fear ebbed, however, he made the leap, seeing the woman’s behavior for what it was: worry over a loved one.

Unaware of her boss’ thoughts, Garcia flowed onward.

“I…I…I called you a stupid, _stupid_ man. B-because you should have, like, a whole _pack_ of watch dogs and…and…and security like Fort _Knox_ on your front door…and…and…I’m so _sorry_ , sir!”

The tears won, tracking an intrepid path downward through mascara, liner and foundation.

“…And I don’t know if you heard me, but…but you’re _not_ stupid, sir. You’re smart and you’re brave and you have really great hair and you dress so…so…beautifully…but I was so _scared_! Sorry…sorry…sorry…”

Hotch felt his own throat tighten, making even squeaky, broken speech impossible. So while Garcia descended into outright sobbing, chanting the word that she didn’t know had been the hallmark of her leader’s childhood, he drew her to his side and let her tears dampen his t-shirt.

And that’s how the team found them when they returned some time later to complete the intervention on Hotch’s behalf. 


	50. A Spot of a Different Color

“How’s it going?” Marty’s inquiry distracted the agents from Garcia’s abrupt departure. “Is Aaron doing alright with a group therapy approach?”

Morgan pulled back from the puzzling scene of Garcia’s abandoned cookies. “So far, so good. He’s tired. We were gonna give him a break, but…looks like my Baby Girl has other ideas.” His tone was that of a truly baffled man.

The doctor stretched, hearing the regrettable creak of aging joints. “Well, maybe you can give him a little rest after the lady’s done with him. But….” He looked toward the patio where Jack was enjoying the company of Mudgie and Fudge. “…but there’s another Hotchner that might need a little help right about now.”

Four pairs of eyes followed the direction of Marty’s gaze.

“Kid looks okay to me. What’s up?” The littlest Hotchner looked contented…happy even…to Morgan.

“Well, Dave mentioned he’s a little upset about losing his leopard spots. Doesn’t seem to want the tribe to disband just yet.”

Morgan shrugged. “Not much we can do about that. For my money, the faster they both clear up, the better.”

“Um…it’s not about healing, Derek.” J.J.’s soft gaze settled on the child and his furry companions. “It’s about belonging. And belonging to the best club in the world, because his Daddy’s in it. His Daddy _leads_ it.”

After a moment of thought, Morgan shook his head. “He’s not getting kicked out of anything. In a week or so, they’ll both be spot-free…un-leoparded. They can make a new club. So, I don’t get it.”

“I think I do.” Prentiss’ voice was low, but firm. She sighed, then seemed to come to a decision. “I think I know what to do. Maybe. Sorta. Worth a shot, anyway.” She glanced around for her purse. Slipping the strap over her shoulder, she headed for the door and the foyer beyond.

“I’ll be back in a bit, guys.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Soon after Emily left, Rossi returned, looking a little overwhelmed.

The others were scattered about the spacious, sunlit room, the coffee pot providing a constant flow of their fuel-of-choice. Morgan straightened at sight of the older agent.

“Is Garcia okay? What’s goin’ on up there?”

Rossi shook his head, looking back toward the stairs. “Tell ya the truth, I’m not sure.” He returned his attention to the group populating his kitchen. “She was upset, but she wanted to talk to Hotch in private.” He took a quick headcount. “Where’s Prentiss?”

Marty’s slow smile presaged his answer. “She took off for parts unknown. Said she’d be back. I suspect she came up with a solution to the _dis_ solution of the Raspberry Leopards.”

The doctor’s grin widened at the looks, ranging from skeptical to curious as the team pondered what this could mean. “And before anyone asks; I have no idea what she’s thinking. But I’ve also realized you are quite the resourceful bunch. I don’t think anything will surprise me.”

After a few beats of silence, Reid returned his thoughts to whatever drama was being enacted upstairs. “How long should we wait before going back up, guys?” He was a little concerned about being the only one left with something to add to Hotch’s intervention. Inwardly, he was debating whether to emulate Garcia, seeking his own private audience, or to drop the matter and stay safely in the background, under the radar.

Rossi brought his wrist up, checking his watch. “Well, Penelope said she’d let us know when she was done, but I wouldn’t count on her making that a priority, considering how _intense_ things looked.” He scratched his beard. “What’d’ya say we give them twenty minutes and then head up there?”

General nods and affirmative grunts greeted the suggestion. The group settled in, keeping track of the passage of time and listening for any alarming Garcia-ish sounds from upstairs.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The full twenty minutes hadn’t passed when Prentiss was ringing for entry at the front door.

A little breathless, but sporting a mischievous smile, she darted in when Rossi admitted her, almost sprinting for the kitchen and the patio beyond, where Jack was still deep in conversation with his ersatz pack.

An audience of curious onlookers watched her shake out the contents of a small bag.

“I saw these the other day…” She glanced at J.J. “…when we were shopping for those baby monitors.” Brandishing a packet of markers capped in lurid shades, indicating the color each would produce, Prentiss looked triumphant.

“They’re for coloring on skin. They wash right off… _and_ …I got these!” With a flourish, she pulled a set of stencils out, displaying them with pride. Grins began to spread throughout the group.

Each square of plastic was cut in designs meant to suggest a different animal. There were tiger stripes, dragon scales, and…the one that earned Prentiss several slaps on the back and congratulatory hugs…leopard spots.

“They can be leopards in every color of the rainbow…raspberry, blueberry…whatever…for as long as they want.”

 

xxxxxxxx

 

The team hesitated just inside the doorway.

They’d waited as long…and longer…than they thought necessary. Prentiss had given Jack his Raspberry Leopard kit and shown him how to use it. Once the boy was absorbed in decorating his arms, the decision to check on Penelope and Aaron was a unanimous one.

Garcia was propped against Hotch’s chest, past the stage of overt sobbing, but still a tearful bundle of self-recrimination for impugning her Liege’s intellect. She continued to shudder against her boss even as a portion of her registered sympathy for what she considered his too-bony frame.

“Hotch?”

The Unit Chief looked up, giving the others the briefest shake of his head. Glances were exchanged, but the Boss-man’s orders were obeyed. The agents spread into the room, but kept quiet, letting whatever was transpiring between Hotch and Garcia run its course.

After a few minutes, Penelope pushed herself upright, wiping at her nose, dabbing beneath her now-steamy lenses. Hotch craned his neck sideways and down, trying to engage his tech analyst’s gaze. But she was ashamed, loathe to let anyone see the aftereffects of what she considered an unforgivable lapse in loyalty: calling her leader a ‘stupid man.’ And doing so at a very high volume.

“ _H-how…_ ” It was all Hotch could articulate. His own throat had tightened in the presence of Garcia’s grief. Frustrated at his body’s failure, he kept one arm around the sniffling woman, groping for his phone with the other. When his fingers connected with it, he bent his head over the tiny screen in fierce concentration. He finally looked up, and, a heartbeat later, Garcia’s phone chimed.

“Oh…” She gasped and dabbed some more, retrieving her pinkly-rhinestoned phone from a lace-trimmed pocket. She regarded the message with solemn, moist eyes.

_“I didn’t hear you call me ‘stupid.’ So, how did it end?”_

When the text had been read, smiling through scattered hiccups and sniffs, she focused on Hotch.

“Thank you…thank you…” She cupped a hand against her leader’s lean cheek. “Thank you, my Master of Chivalry, my beautiful White Knight.” She regained a bit more composure.  “And, well, I…I got kicked out and told I couldn’t come back without an escort…a chaperone.” She wiped her nose on her wrist, giving Hotch a mournful look. “And that’s why I never came to see you alone, and why I never got a chance to explain before this.” She darted a sheepish glance at her co-workers. “And why I kept bugging you guys to come with me to the hospital.”

Still distrustful of his voice and his emotional control, Hotch turned back to his phone. Garcia was ready, waiting for the text this time.

_“Please don’t feel bad. It’s okay to yell at me. Just not too often. And I’ll try not to do anything stupid like getting attacked by a serial killer again. But no guarantees. Are we good?”_

“Oh…sir!” Her face crumpled from the force of a fresh deluge of tears. “We’re better than good…we’re fantastic…amazing…spectacular…splendiferous…Did I say ‘amazing’ already?”

When Hotch nodded, Garcia followed the example set by Prentiss. She leaned in and planted a kiss on his temple, leaving a large, bright pink mark behind.

It bore a striking resemblance to the spot of a Raspberry Leopard.


	51. A Not So Simple 'Thank You'

Having branded Hotch with a very bright, very waxy lip print, Garcia made her snuffling, but cathartic, way back to the comforting arms of her team.

After seeing her into the embracing huddle of Prentiss and J.J., Morgan approached his boss. He studied the haggard face, concern shadowing his eyes. He knew how overwhelming his Baby Girl could be when her emotions broke out and stampeded over the object of their affection. Before speaking, he pulled a tissue from a box on the nightstand. When Morgan’s hand came toward Hotch’s face, instinct made him duck as though warding off a blow.

“Hey, man…just helpin’.” Derek flashed him the tissue with its vibrant, magenta smear. Comprehension dawned in Hotch’s tired eyes as he made the connection between the swatch of color and Garcia’s impulsive kiss. Morgan gave another swipe to the perspiring brow, discarding the tissue before letting the tips of his fingers rest against Hotch’s chest in a light, firm touch.

“You look all in Boss-man. I’m thinkin’ we’ll pack it up for the day.” Morgan kept his voice low, private. “Reid’s got something to say, but we can pick it up some other time.” His hand flattened, patting the chest beneath it. “You’ve had enough for now.”

Over Morgan’s shoulder, Hotch could see his youngest agent’s eyes tracking the exchange. They were typical Reid: large, expressive, awash with equal parts hope and anxiety. Those were the hallmarks with which this gifted, young man stumbled his clumsy way through most of his social contacts. Hotch was exhausted, but he couldn’t send those eyes home without doing something to lessen the stress he saw in their depths.

He shook his head. “No. ‘ _M_ ok _ay_.”

“No, man. You’re not.” Morgan was almost nose to nose with the Unit Chief. “Reid’ll understand. He can wait.”

Rossi had been watching from the sidelines. When Hotch tensed, giving his head a more forceful shake, he stepped in, sensing a small frisson of conflict gaining momentum between the two alpha males. He kept his tone confidential and conciliatory, knowing that the emotional fragility Marty had explained as being part of Hotch’s depleted state could as easily turn to anger as it had to tears. Rossi thought the intervention had gone well so far. He didn’t want it to jump the tracks when they were so close to the end.

“Take a breath, both of you.”

“Rossi, he’s still really sick. You heard the doc.”

Hotch’s voice failed. He settled for bristling and the best glare he could muster under the circumstances.

The older agent sighed. “This isn’t a contest, boys.” With a gentle, but authoritative grip, he removed Morgan’s hand from Hotch’s chest. “It’s alright, Derek.”

“But…”

“If we don’t let him do this, he probably won’t be able to rest after you guys leave. As it is, he’ll likely be running every word, every gesture over and over in his mind.”

Morgan hesitated, mollified by the logic, although he would have preferred asking Dr. Palmer to dose the Unit Chief with something that would guarantee several hours of blissful oblivion.

“Damn it. Hotch…Hotch, someday you’re gonna hafta put yourself first.” Morgan recalled the child downstairs, painting himself in leopard spots. “If not for you, then for your kid.”

The remark hit home. Hotch’s eyes turned tragic. But when he saw the conflicted gaze of Spencer Reid still watching the exchange between his seniors, Hotch felt a modified kind of responsibility for the youngest of his agents. It was akin to, but not as depthless as, that which he felt for his own son.

“No. ‘M g _onna_ talk t’ R _eid_.”

He’d wanted to express himself much more vigorously, but it occurred to him that whatever Reid had to say might require a response. Hotch thought it prudent to husband his strength in case he needed to communicate verbally. He was tired of being sick and incapacitated. He didn’t want Reid’s words to end up in a proverbial dumping ground. He wanted to offer a conversation, not merely an open ear.

Morgan’s sigh was redolent of defeat. He backed off, but gave Reid a reprimanding glance as he returned to the small cluster with Garcia at its midst. _Pretty Boy, say what you’ve gotta say, but **don’t** tire him out any more than he already is._

Reid didn’t notice. His eyes were fixed on Hotch, waiting for some signal conveying permission to approach.

Rossi waited until Morgan was on the opposite side of the room, busy tendering care and concern to Garcia, since Hotch had refused it.

“Aaron, are you sure? Everything Morgan said was true. You look like hell. We can stop this now and let you rest.”

Hotch responded by beckoning Reid closer. Rossi acknowledged his friend’s decision, joining the others and giving unimpeded access to the Unit Chief. As soon as the young agent took his place at his leader’s bedside, all conversation surrounding Garcia ceased. Whether he wanted it or not, Spencer had an audience.

Hotch pulled himself more erect, lifting his chin and bracing himself against the headboard. Really, he was just trying to look alert and keep from pitching over onto his side into a feverish lump.

Reid sat on the edge of the mattress. Not as close to Hotch as his three female teammates had been, but still near enough to foster the illusion of intimate conversation. Hotch concentrated on keeping his eyes open, and prayed he wouldn’t do something along the lines of what Garcia would consider stupid…like fainting, or descending into delirium.

A few minutes passed while Reid gathered his words and his courage. When he began, the quiet, earnest quality of his speech commanded attention.

“Hotch, what all these guys are talking about…you know…when you guys were, uh, _looking_ for me…Gideon talked to me about it.” Reid broke eye contact for a moment, giving himself a chance to order his too-rapid, tumbling thoughts…and the terrible emotions that still permeated his reactions to being kidnapped and tortured.

“We always played chess, but for a few months after…that…he kind of made it a priority to spend more time with me than usual.” A bashful grin flashed out. “We played a _lot_.”

“Th _at_ ’s ‘cause _Gid_ eon cared ab _out_ you a _lot_.”

Reid nodded, compressing his lips as remembrance of those sessions, and the words that were shared, played out to perfection in his eidetic memory. He pulled himself back from recollections as rich in detail as the present.

“I dunno. Maybe.” Before Hotch could argue the point, Reid hurried on. “But he talked about that day….About _you_ that day.”

Hotch gave his head a small shake. He knew he wasn’t his usual sharp self, but all he could dredge up from that terrible time was an overriding feeling of dread, and the tremendous wash of relief when he’d figured out the message his youngest agent was trying to feed his team. In the aftermath, Hotch had felt pride and respect for Reid’s tenacious ability to survive, to think his way out of a situation that would have sent most of them to their graves.

Reid saw the need for elaboration in his leader’s puzzled eyes.

“Gideon said that you were beating yourself up because you thought all you did was take advantage of me…of my brain…that you didn’t think you’d given me anything in return.”

The room was silent. Reid hadn’t mentioned this to anyone. It had remained confidential between him and Jason Gideon. And now, in Gideon’s absence, it was a lonely secret. The young agent was tendering it like an offering on the altar dedicated to the renewal of Aaron Hotchner. Reid rushed on.

“He said you felt you should have given me some kind of training, something that would have helped me withstand a situation that involved torture and…and…” Reid swallowed. “…having to face death.”

Hotch’s eyes squeezed shut. He leaned his head back, rubbing a hand over his face, letting it linger, covering his mouth. _Yes. Yes, I remember that. Dear God, I remember._

“He said you _had_ taught me; that you teach by example… _lead_ by example.” Reid’s voice took on a tinge of sad amazement. “And you questioned what kind of example that could be…as though it came from someone so flawed, it couldn’t possibly be worthwhile.”

Hotch opened his eyes when he felt Reid’s tentative touch on his arm.

“H-o-t-c-h…I learned everything I needed to get through that from you. I mean, there’s no way anyone could have known what would happen. What got me through _was_ your example. The example you’ve shown over the course of years. It’s nothing you can teach in any kind of deliberate manner, because it’s innate. It just comes from inside you…from _being_ you.”

Reid’s eyes began to fill. His voice trailed off, becoming smaller, as though speaking to himself…as though the words weren’t meant to convince anyone of anything…as though they were simple signs of wonder at having been gifted with skills and tools of immeasurable value.

“I didn’t give up because of you. I’m _alive_ because of you.”

Then, for the second time in his life, Agent Reid dragged his stoic, unemotional boss into a crushing hug.

“Thank you, Hotch. That’s all I really wanted to say…just ‘thank you’…”


	52. Scent Sense

“You folks about done?”

Marty’s calm voice broke the spell Reid’s words had wrought. Heads turned to see the doctor standing in the doorway, a small, towel-wrapped bundle in one hand.

“I’m asking as Aaron’s physician. I’d like to check a few things…” His smile was apologetic in case his presence was intrusive. “… _if_ you’re finished, that is.”

Rossi grinned. “And that’s your diplomatic way of telling us we _are_ done, and you want your patient back…right?”

“Well, he _does_ need rest, and he _does_ need to take in a lot more in the way of nourishment, and…” Marty glanced toward the stairs. “…Jack nodded off, so it seemed like a good time for a changing of the guard, and…”

“And you want your patient back.”

“And I want my patient back.”

“Sounds good to me.” Morgan could read the signs of illness and exhaustion ever more clearly in his leader’s face and posture. As Reid let Hotch out of his embrace, Morgan came up on his far side; the place in which he’d stationed himself at the beginning, taking a stance as protector and moderator. His voice grew softer, hand giving one last squeeze to the sick man’s shoulder.

“Get some rest, man. I’d tell you to take care of yourself, but you never pay attention. So instead I’m telling you to let the Doc look after you.” Morgan’s smile made a brief appearance. “And no texting us about work. We’ll bring you up to date when we see you.” He met Reid’s eyes. “C’mon, Pretty Boy. Let’s give Boss-man his space.”

Reid nodded, wiping at his eyes, hoping no one noticed.

“Sure.” He stood, looking down at Hotch as though he might have some parting words. But he’d already said what was in his heart. So he followed Morgan’s example and patted a shoulder as a parting gesture.

A motley chorus of ‘goodbyes’ and ‘take cares’ interspersed with instructions to eat and sleep and get well accompanied the rest of the team’s departure. Morgan brought up the rear. He hesitated in the doorway, looking over his shoulder.

“Take good care of him, Doc.” His eyes met Hotch’s. “We need him.”

Of all the words that had cascaded over him that day, those three were arguably the ones Hotch most wanted to hear. He would hold them close, drawing secret comfort from them for a long time.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Well…” Marty took a seat on the mattress at Hotch’s side. “While you were up here learning what a fine man you are, whether or not you believe it, I was downstairs learning what a fine, young man you’re raising.”

The tactic worked. Hotch’s tired eyes glowed with warmth at the thought of Jack, the best thing he’d accomplished in his entire life. Some of the tension he’d been unaware he was holding during the intervention, melted. But Rossi had been right: he couldn’t really relax. His teammates’ words and images looped through his mind in constant repetition.

“Lie back, son. Try to let it all go for a while.” The doctor pulled the covers down a few inches. Reaching across his patient’s body, he placed the towel-wrapped bundle he’d brought against the area containing Hotch’s rib injury. There was a reflexive jerk at the touch of the fabric.

“Too cold?” Marty raised an eyebrow. “Never did get a chance to find out if ice would feel better than heat. So lie still. Let it work for a few minutes.” Hotch’s hand came up, intending to free the doctor from having to hold the pack against him.

“No.” Marty pushed his hand away. “Relax. Don’t help. If you want to fall asleep…feel free.” He continued, muttering more to himself than to his patient. “Needs a nap. Then he has _got_ to eat….Can’t remember when I’ve had to deal with such a poor appetite….Not good….Not good at all…”

Hotch obeyed, closing his eyes. But it was one of those times when he was too tired to sleep. His mind didn’t have the energy to break free, so it kept running the same words and patterns over and over and over again.

Like a hamster wheel.

 

xxxxxx

 

The team milled about in the kitchen, getting a sense from each other as to how the intervention had gone. For the most part, impressions were favorable. Nibbling on some of Garcia’s Goodies, things were winding down when Prentiss’ head snapped up, looking in the direction of the stairs.

“Damn. Forgot something.” She wiped crumbs from her fingers, and sprinted her way back toward the foyer. “I gotta give Hotch something. But don’t wait for me.”

“But…” Reid’s puzzled voice followed her.

“No. Really. Go on. Don’t wait.”

Glances were exchanged as the sound of stylish boots rapping their way up marble steps floated back.

“We _have_ to wait.” Reid explained to the empty place where Prentiss had been a moment before. “You’re our ride, Emily. You’ve got the keys.”

 

xxxxxx

 

Prentiss reigned herself in when she saw the doctor had closed the bedroom door. She gave it a light tap, edging it open without waiting for permission.

 _Nothing in there I haven’t seen before_ , she reasoned.

In the dim light, she saw Dr. Palmer sitting close to his patient, holding something against his side. He looked up, wondering who had entered. Hotch opened his eyes and craned his neck around, also curious about the intruder’s identity.

Prentiss didn’t know why, but it seemed appropriate to speak in a hushed tone.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s alright, young lady.” Marty smiled. “I thought you people were done for the day.” He raised a brow, only mildly reprimanding. “But I _would_ like Aaron to try to rest.” He looked back at Hotch’s weary eyes, tracking Prentiss, refusing to close…and sighed in mock defeat. “But he doesn’t seem to be of the same mind. Not yet, anyway.”

“Well, it figures.” Emily picked up the gift bag she’d brought earlier, abandoned in a corner, forgotten in the midst of the intervention. “He’s the same way after a case. Everyone else catches a few zees, but…not Hotch. Every time anyone looks up, he’s wide awake, working away on something…or…” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper despite the person under discussion being mere inches away, listening to every word. “…or… _brooding_ about stuff. Ya know?”

The doctor’s lips compressed, trying to stifle the smile at Hotch’s expense. He matched Prentiss’ tone, adopting an air of sharing confidences in complete privacy. “I _know_. Won’t rest. Won’t eat…”

“I _know_!...” Emily shook her head.

Marty mirrored her, throwing his hands up in a gesture of frustrated defeat. “I _know_!...”

“ ‘S en _ough_. St _op_ it.” Hotch’s gravelly voice, breaking like a pre-teen’s still managed to command obedience. Gently teasing obedience…but he’d take what he could get at this point.

Relenting, Prentiss sat on the bed near her boss’ feet. “Sorry, Hotch.” Her mischievous grin told him she wasn’t. Not in the least. But she mastered herself and continued on in a more respectful manner.

“I _do_ know that your mind works overtime, though.” She reached into the large bag, digging deep. “So I got you some stuff to help distract you…maybe amuse you…and I think _this_ might help you relax.” There was no humor, only concern, in her voice now. “At least, that’s what it’s _supposed_ to do. You’ll have to let me know.”

Marty took what looked like a flat, crescent-shaped pillow from her extended hand, turning it over, inspecting it from different angles. “What is it?”

“It’s aromatherapy.” Prentiss grimaced. “I know, I know…it’s not _your_ kind of medical science, but Garcia swears by it, and I thought as long as we have Hotch flat on his back and helpless…”

“H _ey_!”

“Shhhhhhh, Aaron. She’s right. You are.”

Prentiss’ grin had returned. “It’s filled with lavender, eucalyptus, cloves and I don’t remember what else. But…” She took hold of an edge of the pillow, squeezing it, releasing a faint crunching sound and a light burst of fragrance. “…you squish it and that rubs the herbs and stuff together. The scent’s supposed to relax you.”

“Hmmmm…” Marty glanced at Hotch, then crunched and pummeled the pillow with fervor. “C’mon, son…give it a try.” He slipped the aromatic cushion behind Hotch’s head, adjusting it until it rested solidly against his neck and upper shoulders.

Prentiss watched as the Unit Chief gave an experimental sniff, smiled and took a deeper breath. He fixed a grateful look on Emily. “I _c’n_ sm _ell_ it! H _ave_ n’t b _een_ able to sm _ell_ f’r d _ay_ s.”

“What else is in there?” The doctor pointed his chin at the bag sitting on the floor near Prentiss’ feet.

“Just some stuff. Nothing important.” After watching Hotch breathe for a few minutes, Prentiss stood. “I’m gonna go; let you get on with…whatever. See you guys later. Feel better, Hotch.”

“Mmmmm…th _anks_ , Pr _en_ tiss…”

At the door, she glanced back. Hotch’s eyes were closed, the corners of his lips upturned in a faint smile.

When her eyes connected with the doctor’s, he gave her a much wider one.


	53. Butterfly Dreams

Marty watched Hotch descend into a restless doze.

It wasn’t deep, restorative sleep, but he hoped it might progress in that direction. His main concern was that the man had managed, once again, to avoid food; a state deserving of additional regret when he went downstairs to find Rossi gazing in wonderment at Garcia’s wall of Tupperware. It was an activity the agent indulged in several times a day.

Marty suspected the packed, post-Garcia refrigerator had become Dave’s Happy Place.

He wished Aaron had one. If he did, it was well-concealed; too secretive to have been discovered by those closest to him. The doctor sighed.

 _If the man’s Safe Place is pain. I hope that’s not his Happy Place, too._ Human beings were puzzles that could only be solved by assembling the pieces that had broken away from pain and grief and trauma. When one had experienced as much as Aaron had, sometimes the pieces were just too small, too fragmented for any patching procedure to succeed.

 _All the King’s horses, and all the King’s men…_ he felt an echo of sorrow, an unconscious imitation of Garcia’s reaction upon seeing Hotch hospitalized.

“Team went home?”

Rossi startled back from the delicious land into which Garcia’s gifts tended to transport him.

“Uh, yeah…yeah…They’re still on the job, even if their boss is absent.” Rossi shook his head, one hand rubbing his beard as he considered the situation. “You know, as soon as he gets his voice back, he’s gonna be on the phone, pestering them for updates…trying to get them to bring case files to him.”

“Little obsessive, is he?”

“A-a-a-a-a….” Rossi shrugged, one hand raised in a dismissive gesture. “Who isn’t?” But after a moment’s consideration, his eyes grew thoughtful. “There was a time when his ex-wife argued with him about that, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Said the job was what he _did_ , not who he _was_.”

A pause ensued while Marty thought over the two sides. “What’d he think?”

“Aaron said catching the bad guys _is_ who he is.”

“Hmmmmm…” The official physician’s hum told Rossi his friend wasn’t in immediate agreement.

“Marty?...You have an opinion you’d like to share?”

The doctor temporized, chewing on the inside of one cheek. “Well….if you insist…”

“Like I could ever shut you up,” Rossi mumbled under his breath, but calculatedly loud enough for Marty to catch.

A wide grin accompanied the doctor’s response. “I think Aaron needs to look deeper. He’s _not_ his job. But he _is_ someone who’s compelled to rescue victims…to _fix_ things. Any job that fulfills that need would do. Not just this one.”

Rossi had been tidying up in the wake of the team’s visit. He stopped, turning to confront his friend. For a moment, all he did was stare. “He’s saving himself. On every case. Over and over.” His gaze went inward, unfocused. “I’m not surprised.” He looked back at Marty. “On some level I must have known that all along.”

Marty glanced out at the patio. Jack had awakened from his nap. Every visible square inch of skin was artificially leoparded. Having used up the options for decoration on his own body, he was continuing the application of spots on Mudgie’s blonde fur. Marty sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Fudge’s dark coat, which apparently presented an unsatisfactory canvas for leopard-enhancement.

“Dave, I bet if you dig deep enough, you’ll find the same compulsion in every member of your team. Maybe in every field agent in the Bureau.”

“But it’s different with Aaron. More extreme. More…worrisome.”

The doctor nodded. “His compulsion is stronger, because…”

“Because his abuse and his pain are greater.”

“That’d be my guess.” He sighed. “It’s a sad, old world. Boy’s compensating the best he can, but probably doesn’t even realize his motives.” Marty continued to watch Jack at play, unable to keep a smile from surfacing.

A fragment of something J.J. had passed on to him played across Rossi’s mind. _She asked him why he chose the BAU…and he couldn’t answer. He even acknowledged that he was still working that out._ Dave felt his throat tighten. _Oh, Aaron. I know something you don’t know…_

The sing-song cadence of the childhood taunt, despite the gravity of its subject, brought Hotch’s son to mind. Rossi exhaled a bitter breath for the father and looked out the window at the son.

“Oh, no….Jack! _Jack_!”

Marty’s chuckle played in the background as Dave ran out to rescue his mostly-lavender, mostly-spotted Mudge-leopard.

 

xxxxxx

 

Eventually Rossi found himself at Hotch’s bedside.

He leaned over and took a cautious sniff in the vicinity of the aromatherapy pillow. _Not bad. But it’s not working as well as one might wish._

The Unit Chief was restless; small movements of his head and lips indicating troubled sleep. Rossi rested the back of one hand against Hotch’s brow. _Still too warm._

He studied the lean face, wondering at all the hiding places and secrets tucked away behind the façade; so well-concealed that even Aaron didn’t know how deeply they affected him. Rossi debated with himself about revealing some of Marty’s theories to his friend. He wasn’t sure of the value of being told such information. _Aside from shock value, that is._ He wondered if it might be better to let Hotch discover these things about himself in his own time. But there was a good chance he never would. Unless someone helped him…led him in the right direction. Rossi wasn’t sure that was anybody’s business, except Hotch’s.

He sighed. This wasn’t an easy riddle. A man’s soul was involved. _And I don’t need to come up with any answers tonight._

In the end, Dave settled for brushing the dark hair back from the forehead and humming tuneless comfort to his friend.

He wasn’t aware when it resolved itself into a melody. But when he recognized the sad lullaby about horses promised to a crying baby, lying in a meadow with bees and butterflies tormenting his eyes…Dave felt the timeless sorrow of the song strangely appropriate.

Hotch must have agreed. Tension ebbed; agitated movements replaced by stillness. After a time, Rossi gave his friend’s cheek a final pat, leaving him deep in the heavy sleep that was what he needed so badly.

 

xxxxxx

 

Hotch was dreaming.

This time there were no mirrors. No smoke. No hands delivering touches of hate or accusation. In a way, what he dreamt now was more disturbing. The hate and anger he could understand; knew what events birthed them…what fears within himself were being given voice and presence.

But the new dreams…bewildered him. Their genesis was a mystery.

Someone was holding him. Someone so large that he was engulfed. Yet rather than feeling overwhelmed, he felt so… _safe…safe…safe…_ He was warm, and a rich fragrance enfolded him. _Lavender, child. It’s what we-uns plants fer luck. Lord knows, we be needin’ it more than most._ The same voice like dark honey sang to him. Sang to him about time past when women took their babies into the fields, because they had no choice. Sang to him about the strength born of endless, wearying sorrow. It was her song. Taken from her people’s terrible history. And she shared it with this small, hurt boy whose need for love transcended time and race and circumstance.

‘ _Bees and butterflies…_ ’

‘ _Flittin’ ‘round his eyes…_ ’

And then Hotch was somewhere…some- _when_ …else. Bigger. The warmth was still with him, but smaller, less all-encompassing, more precious. And the butterflies were landing on him. Landing on his arms, his face. He brushed at them, shooing them off. And every time he did, they’d giggle. Fluttering away with a musical laughter he loved hearing. Returning to feather his skin with the lightest of touches, only to flee in a ripple of childlike mirth again and again.

Strange dreams. But he didn’t mind them. So Hotch slept on until morning.

 

xxxxxxx

 

When he woke up, Hotch took a moment to orient himself. The dreams had been powerful enough to make it necessary.

He smiled, knowing the feel of Jack by his side. He raised his head, but couldn’t see much detail in the darkened room. The aromatic pillow pulled his attention for a minute. Something about the scent brought back an echo of the dreams.

He gave his head a rueful shake. _Scent memory. It triggered something. Too bad I can’t remember what or why._

He slipped out of bed, taking extra care not to disturb his son. He padded his barefoot way across the carpet to the bathroom, trying to hold on to the edges of the dreams he’d had. He didn’t want to lose them entirely. Not yet.

Once in the bathroom, he closed the door before switching on the lights, again to avoid waking Jack. He was preoccupied with vague impressions of fragrance, warmth, and a melody buried so far back in his past that all he could recall was its elusive sadness and, curiously, a feeling of being cared for…of mattering to someone. Bemused, Hotch crossed to the sink. Finally focusing on the present, he glanced up into the mirror mounted on the wall.

Hotch’s jaw dropped.

His face…and now that he looked…his arms…and when he raised the hem of his t-shirt…part of his stomach…were covered with pink and purple leopard spots. They had been executed with skill; placed with artistry. Hotch stared.

And then he remembered the feel of insects he’d tried to brush away…and the childish giggles that accompanied their butterfly-light touch each time they fled.

_Jack. He made me even **more** of a Raspberry Leopard._

Aaron couldn’t help it. He laughed. Because the mystery of at least one of the dreams was solved.

And because he loved his son enough _not_ to wash off the spots, but to leave them for all the world to see.

 


	54. Path to the Past

Hotch laughed until his cough resurfaced and a dull ache in his left side reminded him that he needed to take everything, even mirth, at an easier pace.

As much as he wanted to leave his new leopard spots undisturbed, he decided to risk shaving, reasoning that his beard would soon overgrow Jack’s handiwork anyway. Nonetheless, he was relieved when he found that the marks rinsed away when subjected to a little shaving cream and water.

Hotch always felt better after cleaning himself up, but even this minimal effort left him weak and lightheaded. He gave a frustrated growl at his own infirmity, but perked up when he realized his voice was better. After a few experimental vocalizations, he made his way back to bed and Jack.

En route, he had another pleasant realization. He’d flipped the light on in the bathroom without wincing. His eyes weren’t as sensitive. Encouraged, he twitched back one side of the heavy, jacquard drapes covering the windows. The pale, morning sun made him squint, but didn’t hurt. So he bared all the windows, washing the sickroom in a soft light that lifted his spirits.

With dawn pouring over the bed, he inspected his cub. Spotted. As artificially and identically as on his own skin. From head to foot, as far as Hotch could tell. _From ear to paw_ , he corrected himself, getting into the spirit of the game, since dermal evidence suggested it was still one Jack wanted to play. Hotch crouched over his son and put his recovering voice to the test, growling and snarling and worrying the cub’s ear with his teeth until it rolled over, gave a joyful squeal, and thwarted the big-cat attack with a barrage of hugs and cub-growls.

 

xxxxxx

 

When Marty arrived, bearing yet another sumptuous, overladen tray, he found himself in the regal presence of the Leopard Chief. The Chief’s lone subject and heir apparent, lounging at his side, was touching up his leader’s freshly shaven face.

The doctor pressed his lips together, doing his best to maintain the respectful air proper when addressing royalty…or a tribal chieftain…or the king of the jungle… _or **whatever** these two are._ He set the tray down, taking his cue from the manner in which Aaron was looking down the length of his aristocratic nose at one and all.

“Your Highness.”

Ensconced against his throne of pillows, Hotch arched one expressive brow at the interloper, clearly _not_ of the same exalted lineage as those bearing the mark of the Tribe. The doctor would have asked him how he was feeling, but the smaller leopard was bouncing with eager anticipation.

“Now, Daddy! Do it _now_!”

Hotch had been saving himself up ever since he realized his voice was coming back. But now, at the behest of his kingdom-of-one he let loose with the mightiest roar of which he was capable. It was a bit scratchy and cracked in a few places, but it told the doctor that his patient was mending.

It delighted Jack, being proof positive that the rich traditions of the Raspberry Leopards would survive even the capricious nature of measles spots.

Poppi had been right: the Tribe’s identity transcended mere physical appearance.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Later that day, while Jack was downstairs pitting his strength in a wrestling match against the saintly patience…and complete indifference… of Mudgie and Fudge, Rossi took the opportunity to touch bases with Hotch.

When he walked in on him, the Unit Chief was propped up against his pillows amid the detritus of his son’s toys and puzzles. His eyes were closed, head turned to the side, breathing deeply of the aromatherapy cushion Prentiss had brought him. Rossi could tell he was awake, but someplace far away. He kept his voice low, not wanting to startle his friend.

“Aaron?” No visible reaction. Rossi reached out, tapping a finger against a jutting collarbone. “Aaron.”

Hotch returned from parts unknown. But he did it in such a gentle, easy way that Rossi was the surprised one. Usually, Hotch jolted. Usually, he came back battle-ready and wary. Not this time.

 _He’s completely relaxed. Whatever he was thinking…wherever he was…there was no tension. It was a Safe Place._ The thought that one existed, even if it was just in Aaron’s mind or memory, gave Rossi more hope for the man than he’d felt in years; ever since his marriage disintegrated, beginning the chain of events that caused his life to become a theatre of tragedy, akin to the one in which he’d grown up.

Rossi smiled at the open, unguarded eyes of his friend. “Where were you just now?”

Hotch shook his head, ending with his nose against the fragrant pillow. “I dunno.”

“You sure?”

The dark eyes stared, but…differently. There was no challenge, no glare. _His defenses are down. He’s letting me look into him without imposing any filters._

“Something about…” Hotch faded, puzzled.

“What? ‘Something about’ what?”

“I dunno,” he repeated, shrugging and breathing deeply of the scented mixture cushioning his head.

Rossi’s eyes narrowed, gaging Hotch’s reaction and the opportunity it might offer.

“Close your eyes, Aaron.”

“What?” He sounded distant. Already the scent was pulling him away.

“Close your eyes.”

But the pillow hadn’t had enough time to subdue him, so, being Hotch, he did the exact opposite, subjecting Rossi to, if not the glare, then a long, searching look.

“Why?”

Rossi sighed, groping for the most persuasive words he could find. “Because we might discover something worth knowing about your past?”

The filters snapped in place. The shutters came down. “I don’t wanna go hiking through my past, Dave.”

Feeling a little ashamed of the ploy he was about to use, but reasoning it was for Hotch’s own good, Rossi held his friend’s now defensive gaze. “It would mean a lot to _me_ , if you would, Aaron.”

Hotch faltered, unable to dismiss any action he might take that would benefit another. Still, suspicion was at the forefront. “It’s _my_ past, Dave. Not yours. And there’s nothing that’ll change it.” Hotch scanned the older man’s face, finding only concern and conflict about… _what?_ So he delved deeper.

“Why would it mean so much to you to lead me through cognitive recall that personal?”

Rossi kneaded his knuckles, debating…and came to a decision. “Aaron, over the last few days you’ve been a very sick boy.” Hotch gave one slow nod of acknowledgement. “I stayed by your side for the worst of it, and I heard some very disturbing things.”

Hotch swallowed. “Okay. So?”

Rossi’s lips compressed. “Full disclosure?” Another slow nod. “Alright, then.” He leaned closer, engaging eyes that now had a shadow of doubt…possibly fear…in them.

“I listened to a child who’s known more torture than love, beg for it to stop.” Color drained from Hotch’s already pale face. Rossi reached out, laying a palm along one leopard-spotted cheek. “It would do an old man’s heart good to know there was something else in that child’s life. Even just one moment or one person who helped him survive.”

Hotch’s voice was small, strained. “Why?”

“Because I love him.”

Rossi saw the signs of stress. The lip being chewed; the increased rate of respiration. But after a moment, Hotch relented, settling back, snuggling into the scented pillow by instinct, as though it were an anchor that would keep him from getting too lost in his private sea of horrors. He gave one last, troubled look at Rossi and then, in a demonstration of reluctant trust, closed his eyes.

Rossi spoke in a smooth, even, monotonous tone. “Breathe, Aaron. Deep, even breaths.”

Hotch inhaled the scent. It was complex, rich, but…somehow…incomplete. It wanted something else to be exactly right. But if he didn’t think about it, it could almost complete itself.

Rossi watched his friend’s chest expand and contract. When it slowed, he judged the time right. “What do you smell, Aaron?”

Without the force of effort behind it, Hotch’s still scratchy voice sounded fragile. “Lavender... For luck.”

“Luck?”

“By the door. Planted…for luck.”

Rossi didn’t have a clue what this meant, or where it might lead. But it was something. _And all journeys begin with a single step._ “What else? What do you feel?”

“Warm…” And then the word Rossi had most hoped for…somewhere, _anywhere_ , in Aaron’s past. “…safe. Warm ‘n’ safe.”

“What else?” Hotch seemed to have a particular affinity for scents. Rossi pursued that angle. “What else do you smell?”

A long pause, then… “Soap. Sunshine.”

“Sunshine?” Rossi didn’t think light had an odor. It must mean something else in Aaron’s world.

A slow smile touched Hotch’s lips. “Pillowcases. She’d hang them outdoors to dry on sunny days. They smelled…” He ended on a sigh. “…wonderful.”

Rossi went forward with the tenderness, the delicacy of thistle down. “Is she there now? Can you see her?”

Hotch’s deep exhale was the kind that takes all tension with it, leaving only placid calm in its wake. “No.”

This surprised Rossi. He’d thought by Aaron’s reaction that whoever ‘she’ was, she was close…very close. “No?” He was almost whispering. “Why can’t you see her?”

“Holding me.” He sighed again, nestling closer to the pillow. “Always held me so I was almost buried in her.” His smile widened, a reflection of bliss. Then, so slowly it was an almost imperceptible transition, Hotch’s expression…blanked…reverting to the stoicism that was his hallmark. The eyes that opened and looked into Rossi’s were part wonder, part sorrow, and touched with confusion.

“Felicia.” Said so softly, reverently, it was almost a prayer.

“Oh, God, Dave. I haven’t thought of her in…” The eyes closed again, forcing out the tear Rossi hadn’t known was forming. “…Oh,God…not since I was a kid.”

Rossi was beginning to wonder if this foray into the past had been a good idea after all.


	55. Felicia

“Felicia.”

Hotch breathed the name. Rossi couldn’t tell if it was said with longing, or with the stunned reaction more appropriate to a ghost sighting. He watched his friend push away from the scented pillow that had triggered his memories, and swing his legs over the side of the mattress, leaning over, elbows braced on knees.

“Easy, Aaron…you’re still running a pretty high fever. It’s not time to vacate the bed yet.”

Hotch didn’t hear. Focused on the floor, his brain was reopening paths that had long gone dormant. He showed no inclination to move any further, nor to speak. Rossi frowned, scooting his chair directly in front of his friend. Knee to knee, he assumed the same position as Hotch. Rossi bent his neck, trying to see into the downcast face.

He was looking for a clue as to how to proceed. At first he’d been thrilled that there was someone in Hotch’s childhood who might have brought some love and kindness to an otherwise emotionally starved boy. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Hotch’s reaction was more of shock than joy. And Rossi was beginning to kick himself for setting the whole mess in motion without doing a little more research, a little more probing on his own before subjecting Aaron to… _to what? Ghosts? Demons? Something so horrific he repressed it until his good friend Dave decided to exhume it?_ Rossi’s heart clenched. _And I goaded him into participating by telling him I love him. Now I might have given him **another** reason to be leery of initiating affection._

The team knew their leader never reached out physically. Hug him, and he’d return the gesture in spades. But he kept himself separate and inviolate; careful never to be the one to open his arms first; never to show a need for intimacy. Hotch accepted the invitation, but never extended one.

Rossi also wondered if Hotch was such a lonely soul in part because he’d made a twisted boyhood connection between being taught that parents love their children, and simultaneously experiencing the cruel reality of his own parentage. He hated to think that the man might have developed a subconscious equivalency between love and hurt. It could be a partial explanation for the suspicion that pain was his Safe Place.

Rossi also knew one of Hotch’s greatest dreads was being alone. He felt himself so flawed, he needed the tempering presence of another to offset what he considered his own weaknesses. Once he’d married, Hotch thought that particular dragon had been slain. But it had been resurrected and invigorated by Haley’s desertion and subsequent death. As strong as the façade Hotch presented, his solitary state provided prime breeding ground for his doubts about his abilities. Especially as a father. He’d only voiced them once to Rossi. But for him to have spoken at all, meant those doubts had explosive power in his psyche.

 _‘I don’t think I have the tools to help my son.’ He said that to me, and I repay him for his trust by taking him on a trip into the past without considering the damage it might do._ Rossi sent up a silent prayer that whoever this woman was, she hadn’t left yet another emotional scar as a keepsake to add to Aaron’s collection.

“Felicia.” Hotch still sounded distant.

“Aaron.” Rossi risked a touch on the chin to bring his friend’s eyes in line with his own. “Aaron, are you okay?”

“I…uh, yeah…sure.” Hotch sat a little straighter. Rossi followed suit.

When he lapsed into distracted silence again, Rossi gave a gentle push. “I need more than that, Aaron. C’mon…I’m feeling a little guilty here for leading you someplace I maybe should’ve left alone.”

The key word was ‘need.’ Hotch couldn’t ignore being needed.

“No, Dave. ‘S okay.” The scratchy voice made it hard for Rossi to tell if he was sincere. “It’s just I don’t know how I could have forgotten her.” He finally looked fully present. “She deserved so much better than that.” He shook his head. “Felicia.”

“So…it sounds like she was a good part of your past?” Rossi knew he was trying to tip the scales to soothe himself. If Hotch had been a witness in the field, he never would have made such a leading suggestion. Still, he was relieved when the Unit Chief nodded.

“Yeah. I think she loved me. Or maybe she just took care of all broken animals.” Rossi’s heart clenched at hearing Hotch describe himself that way. But he stayed quiet, reluctant to interrupt.

Hotch took a deep breath. Pulling himself up, he searched Rossi’s eyes. “You sure you wanna hear this?”

“Probably more than you want to tell it.”

“Okay.” Hotch glanced at the Bat-Cam. “That thing’s not working, is it? I don’t want Jack to hear any of this. Some stuff he doesn’t need to know.”

“It’s controlled from the monitor, but Jack’s downstairs with Marty.” Seeing his friend’s doubt, Rossi scooped up the little camera unit. He walked into the bathroom, returning empty-handed and closing the door behind him. “There. No way can that thing spy on us now.”

  Hotch nodded, but didn’t seem in any hurry to continue.

“Aaron. It’s me. I already know things were bad for you.” Knowing Hotch’s inner conflict…needing comfort, but never asking for it…Rossi sat beside him, draping an arm across his back; ready to hug or pat or do whatever was necessary.

When Hotch finally began, his throaty voice was barely above a whisper.

“Her name was Felicia.” He gave Rossi a sideways glance. “You have to understand the kind of town where I grew up, Dave. It was small and Southern and insular. One foot always in the past. While civil rights were sweeping the rest of the country, we hardly felt a ripple.”

“And Felicia was black?”

Hotch nodded. “She was also kind and braver than I could understand at that age.”

“How old were you?”

A shrug preceded the terrible answer. “Don’t really know. Birthdays were some of the worst times for me. Brought me to… _his_ …attention more than usual if anyone made a fuss. It was safer if they passed by without any recognition.” Rossi watched unmerited shame pass across Hotch’s face. “It wasn’t until I was older that I kept track of the years…the way real people do.”

 ** _Real_** _people?_ Rossi’s stomach dropped at the distinction Hotch had made between himself and the rest of the world. The arm around his friend’s shoulders squeezed once and released.

“Anyway, I scoped out the whole neighborhood for secret places…hiding places. The best ones were on other people’s property; places where, uh, _someone_ …couldn’t just barge in unnoticed. Sometimes I had to…get away…when it was really cold or stormy, so the _really_ best places offered some kind of shelter from the weather.”

Rossi’s arm hugged tighter, and a little bit longer.

“One of the neighbors had an outbuilding just for laundry. There were a washing machine and dryer inside. It wasn’t heated, but it was far enough away from the main house that sometimes I could get away with starting up the dryer and huddling up close to it for warmth.” Hotch ducked his head. “That’s where she found me.”

“Felicia?”

“Yeah.” Rossi watched as Aaron’s eyes went distant again. “I was so tired and I couldn’t go back, so I guess I fell asleep curled up on the floor as close to the dryer as I could get. I was so scared she was going to kick me out or, worse, take me back to my Dad’s house.” The small laugh that escaped Hotch was dry and mirthless. “But the hired help knows more about what goes on in households than anyone…even the people who live there.

“Felicia picked me up and held me like I’d never been held before.” Hotch glanced at Rossi. “Like I mattered. Like I was worth saving. Turned out she fed the neighborhood cats, so she just kind of included me with the other strays. She’d sneak me food, and blankets when she couldn’t stay with me and keep me warm in her arms. She knew who I was and why I was hiding, but she couldn’t do anything about it. Not and keep her job. That’s how it was back then. And my Dad was a powerful man. No one went against him and didn’t pay for it several times over.

“Best of all, Felicia talked to me. She’d hold me and tell me it wouldn’t always be like this. That someday I’d be free, but until then she’d look out for me.” The breath Hotch drew was ragged.

Rossi’s voice was quiet, respectful of the confidence into which he’d been taken. “What happened to her? Do you know?”

Hotch nodded, chewing on his bottom lip until he could find the words. “She stood up to him. She couldn’t watch anymore and she stood up to him.” One sob was quickly suppressed.

Rossi’s arm tightened yet again, holding steady.

“One day I didn’t get away in time. When she found me in the laundry building, I guess I looked pretty bad. All I remember now is there was blood on my clothes, and I was scared I’d get in more trouble for, you know…bleeding…making a mess…So I asked Felicia if she could help me wash my shirt so I wouldn’t get hit again.” Hotch shook his head. “She cleaned me up, put my clothes in the washer and told me to stay there. And then a few minutes later I heard her. Hell, the whole damn neighborhood heard her.” Hotch’s smile was more of a grimace.

“She stood on my father’s porch and shouted until he came to the door. Then she cursed him up and down. She said that she was ashamed of the whole town, if they could stand by and watch what Mr. Hotchner did to his family, especially his boy Aaron. I was terrified. But the fact that this old, black woman was giving what for to mighty Mr. Hotchner must’ve shocked the hell out of my Dad.”

Hotch’s smile was still sad, but a little more genuine. “He didn’t lay a hand on me for a whole week after that. But…” This time the sob couldn’t be held down. It doubled Hotch over.

“But Felicia was gone.”

“They fired her?” Rossi was having a hard time keeping his voice level.

“Must’ve. I never saw her again.”

“I’m sorry, Aaron.”

“She must’ve been forced to move on. She sacrificed everything. After that no one in town would’ve dared hire her. And it bought me a week’s reprieve. And I forgot her.”

This time Rossi used both arms, hugging Hotch as tightly as he could. Bringing the dark head down against his chest. Hoping that it would make him feel as safe and loved and worthy as when Felicia, the soul saving grace of his childhood, had held him close.

And because a damaged, little boy never got the chance to say it, Rossi sent up the words on his behalf.

_Thank you, Felicia. Thank you for the light you brought into a dark place. Thank you for your heart and your courage. Thank you for helping my Aaron survive. Thank you._


	56. Angels Among Us

Hotch made an abortive attempt to struggle free.

But Rossi was determined to hold on for as long as it took; until the memories sifted down to a calmer place; until the world became a kinder place; until the muscles in his arms gave out.

“Give it up, Aaron. I’m not letting go.”

The response was muffled against his chest. “‘F I wasn’ sick…”

“But you _are_ sick. _And_ you’re a guest in my home. So you have to do what I say.” Rossi gave one extra-snug squeeze. “Be still.”

After a while, the tension in Hotch’s muscles eased. He surrendered and let himself be held. His voice was a little less choked when he spoke again.

“Dave?”

“Hmmmm?”

“Thank you.”

Rossi sighed, not sure he was deserving of any gratitude. “I’m sorry, Aaron. I’m sorry you had such a hard time growing up. I’m sorry you forgot Felicia. I’m sorry I made you remember her in such a half-assed, clumsy way.”

An almost-chuckle bounced the body in his embrace. “ _Now_ who’s ‘pologizing f’r stuff that isn’t h’s fault?”

Rossi pulled back enough to see the dark head pressed against him. “Well, wha’d’ya know. Some of the things I’ve been telling you managed to break through and lodge somewhere in the crevices of that stubborn brain after all.” He pressed his lips against the dark hair for a heartbeat. “Atta boy. Just keep absorbing my wisdom and you’ll be fine.”

Rossi chose to ignore the muted snort of derision that puffed breath against his shirt.

Silent minutes passed. Rossi felt Hotch’s muscles release even more. Without conscious volition, he, too, relaxed. His mind wandered, seeking distraction from the disturbing images of Aaron’s childhood. Without thinking, he began to hum a melody that came to mind, and felt appropriate under the circumstances.

 

‘Blacks and bays

‘Dapples and grays

‘All the pretty, little horses…’

 

The effect was electric.

Hotch tore himself from Rossi’s loosened grip, staring at him in horrified fascination. “Why’re you singing that? Where’d you hear it? Did I…” He blinked, breathing gone ragged once again.

Taken off guard, Rossi stared back for a moment while his brain reconstructed the genesis of the lullaby. He realized Hotch had no inkling how the tune had surfaced, weaving its way through the team’s efforts to care for their leader and his young son.

“What’s wrong? Talk to me, Aaron. What’re you thinking?”

Hotch swallowed, making a determined effort to regulate his breathing. “You said at my worst I said stuff…talked in my sleep?” Rossi nodded. “Is that where you heard it?”

“No. No….I…I think I’ve always known it. J.J. sang it to us, and I guess that brought it back to me.” Rossi decided to elaborate, hoping to give Hotch time to gather himself, and also thinking the tale of the lullaby was a nice one that would only benefit by repetition.

“Morgan told us he was sitting with you while J.J. sang Jack to sleep.” Rossi smiled. “The sound was coming over the monitor. Said he turned away for a minute and when he looked back, you were out like a light.” He shrugged. “We kind of joked about how maybe we could use it as a magic bullet…put you to sleep on the jet…that kind of thing.”

He let his hand settle on Hotch’s back again, giving an experimental rub as he tried to gage the emotional terrain. “It was all done in kindness, Aaron. No one meant to upset you. And…it’s a beautiful lullaby. Especially when J.J. sings it. Kind of haunting.”

“It’s what _she_ used to sing. Felicia.”

“I’m sorry, Aaron.” Rossi reestablished a full-on hug, rocking lightly, but making sure he didn’t give in to any impulse to hum melodies of questionable lineage. He took a deep breath and voiced his main fear. “Did I make a mistake forcing you to remember all this?”

“What? No!” Hotch pulled himself up. “Felicia was…the best. She deserves to be remembered.”

“But you don’t deserve to be hurt…to feel any more pain than life has already doled out to you.”

Hotch took his time before responding. When he did, his voice was steadier. “Any pain I feel is because I loved her, and she was gone before I could tell her, or even understand what love was…what it felt like to _be_ loved.” He swallowed. “She was _unique_ in my experience. I didn’t have anything to compare her to, to put her into context. I didn’t know people could be that nice to each other.”

He lowered his head and his voice, doing what Rossi called ‘that hiding thing.’ Hotch’s words were quiet, but shot through with an intensity he rarely displayed. “I don’t wanna make that mistake again.” He swallowed. “Dave, you know how I feel about _you_ , right?”

Any other time, Rossi might have made Hotch explain himself, thinking it would be emotionally therapeutic. But the strange, terrible, sentimental journey into his past was more than enough for one day. So Rossi rested his chin on the back of Aaron’s bowed head and matched the private tone of his voice.

“Yeah. I guess I do. But it’s nice to hear, you know? And Aaron?....Right back atcha.”

 

xxxxx

 

When Hotch said he needed some time alone, Rossi didn’t question it.

He took the opportunity to clear away used dishes and a regrettable amount of food that should have met its destiny in Hotch’s stomach. He checked on Marty and Jack, finding them immersed in the world of Disney DVDs.

When the doctor glanced up, he read in Rossi’s face that something stressful had happened. Concerned, he followed him into the kitchen.

“What’s wrong, Dave?”

Rossi shook his head, rinsing dishes as he reviewed all he’d learned. “I may have done a pointlessly dumb, intrusive thing, Marty.” Raised brows encouraged him to continue. “I took Aaron through cognitive recall. It’s something we do in the field to help witnesses remember details that’re blocked by trauma and shock.”

“Uh-oh. Didn’t go so well?”

“It _worked_. But…” Rossi braced himself, hands gripping the counter edge. “I think it might’ve harmed more than helped.”

“Let’s have it.”

So Rossi explained everything, watching the lines of Marty’s face sag deeper into sympathetic sorrow with each word. When he was finished, the doctor joined him in staring out the kitchen window, seeing the past rather than the lush, expensive landscaping.

“That poor kid. It’s amazing things like that go on right beneath our noses. And no one helps put a stop to it.”

“Sign of the times.” Rossi drew a deep breath. “But that woman was the hero of Aaron’s childhood. That’s for sure.”

“Yeah.” Marty’s voice was soft. “ ‘Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy.’ F. Scott Fitzgerald said that. He was right.”

Rossi nodded, distracted. “I wonder what happened to her…to Felicia. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone like that made her mark someplace else, too. Not just on one sorry, little boy.” He looked up when he felt Marty’s elbow give him a gentle nudge.

“David Rossi, are you telling me a big, hotshot FBI agent like you doesn’t have the resources to track a lady who holds her head that high and speaks out that loudly? You disappoint me, my friend.” But the small grin told Rossi this was a challenge, not a final verdict in the matter of Felicia versus her life and times. He felt the irrepressible urge to pick up the gauntlet Marty’d thrown down.

“It was a long time ago. Aaron said she was old even then.”

“Aaron was a child who didn’t even have a sense of his _own_ age. And all adults look ‘old’ to little kids. Hell, if he’d seen us back then, we’d look positively _monumental_ …tributes to antiquity.”

Rossi’s nod was slow, his voice thoughtful. “Possibly, possibly.”

“And I know from experience that medical records and vital statistics were kept with pretty fair accuracy back then. We have whole departments of people converting information like that, bringing it into the digital age.” He shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt to look.”

That brought Rossi up short. “I’m not so sure about that. I think looking back hurt Aaron; made a world of pain more real and more immediate.” He gazed toward the staircase. “Think I should go ahead and only tell him if I find something? Something _good_ for a change?”

Both men considered the pros and cons of the situation in silence.

“No.” Rossi answered his own question. “The last thing he needs are surprises or to think that someone he trusts is going behind his back. And I’ll need Garcia.” He shot a reproving glance at the doctor. “And she’s about as open as they come. One look at Penelope trying to keep a secret and he’d know something was going on.”

Marty nodded his agreement. “Besides, you need to ask him more about Felicia. I really _don’t_ have any idea about the resources available to you, Dave. But I’ve seen the kind of loyalty that boy commands. I’d say devotion alone will make whoever’s involved more determined to succeed than…I dunno…than your Mudge with a seemingly impenetrable Tupperware container of cookies.”

Rossi’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, yeah…I know…my dog’s a vandal…yours is a perfect lady…I get it.”

“Just so we’re clear.” Marty’s smug air of superiority almost made Rossi wish for some Fudge-induced damage to his personal property; something he could point to in defense of Mudgie’s pastry piracy. He sighed, returning to the matter at hand.

“Okay. I guess my next step is to run this by Aaron and, if he’s up for it, see if I can pull any more useable information out of him.” He closed his eyes for a brief moment. “God, I wish I could fix this…fix _him_.” He gave the doctor a searching look. “Do you think we’re making any headway with him? Any at all?”

Marty put a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I have to believe we are. I _want_ to believe that everything we’re doing is leaving its mark. And someday Aaron’ll surprise us and himself by putting it all together. And you…you’re doing your best. Some things have their own momentum. They’re like laws of nature. Immutable. Unstoppable. But like the man said: ‘Show me a hero…’”

“ ‘…and I’ll write you a tragedy.’ I know, Marty.” Unsure of his own enthusiasm for this project, Rossi trudged toward the stairs.

Halfway up, the doctor called to him.

“Dave?” Rossi paused, looking down. “Heroes also figure prominently in all those tales that end ‘happily ever after.’ And Aaron’s story is still a work in progress. Anything could happen. If it helps, we’re just continuing what Felicia began.”

Rossi considered his friend’s words. When he resumed negotiating the stairs, he had the beginnings of a small, hopeful smile. And his steps were a bit lighter.

 _Anything can happen._ Change was the one unavoidable, most reliable thing in life. There was always a fifty-fifty chance it could be change for the better. Aaron was way overdue for the good kind.

_And at some point I **do** believe the scales have to balance themselves out. Or at least not remain so **un** balanced._

Despite all he’d seen and all he knew, Rossi was still a man of faith. This time he put his faith in the unpredictable reliability of change as he went to begin the exploration of, and search for Felicia, the angel of Hotch’s boyhood.

 


	57. No Such Thing As Closure

When he entered the room, Rossi found Hotch sitting with his back against the headboard, arms wrapped around knees drawn up to his chin.

It was a posture that made him look young and vulnerable. It was a posture that made Rossi think of a child pressing himself against a clothes dryer, trying to leach its residual warmth into a body gone cold from lack of love and care. He approached with quiet concern.

“Aaron?...How we doin’?”

“Hmmm?” Hotch looked up, fully present, but emerging from deep preoccupation. He nodded. “Okay. ‘M okay.”

It was reminiscent enough of the ‘I’m okay’ mantra to make Rossi heave a sigh. Hotch noticed.

“What?”

“You really don’t know when you’re doing that? Keeping people at a distance? _Hiding_?” Hotch’s eyes darted, casting about for reference points to help him understand his friend’s frustration. Rossi saw in his baffled expression that no conscious subterfuge was involved.

“My God. You really _don’t_ know when you’re doing it.” He shook his head. “The list of ‘tells’ I’ve got on you is growing, Aaron.”

He took a seat on the bed, facing his sick guest.

“You’re thinking about Felicia.” Hotch nodded, eyes focusing inward again. “Me, too. And it occurs to me…we can try to find her… _if_ you want, that is.”

Hotch’s eyes stopped tracking some inner landscape. But when Rossi looked into them, he thought he saw something akin to fear. He drew his own conclusions.

“So you _don’t_ want us to trace her?” Rossi couldn’t keep a note of disappointment from creeping in. If Aaron didn’t want to pursue the matter, it confirmed his suspicions that he shouldn’t have delved into his friend’s past and dragged Felicia to the surface.

Hotch blinked. “No. I…I’m just not sure yet. That’s all.”

Rossi frowned. “Are you afraid of something? Aaron?”

Resting his forehead against his knees, Hotch closed his eyes. After a deep breath, his voice was muffled. “Dave, if we really look for her, the team might get involved. At the very least Garcia will.” Rossi waited, knowing the crux of the matter was about to reveal itself. “I don’t want them to know all that…stuff…about my past; about growing up like that.”

Rossi was keenly aware of walking a line finer than a strand of spider’s silk. “Okay…Alright…” He rubbed his beard, taking a moment to profile how Hotch was presenting himself physically; folded into as small a space as such a tall man could occupy; face buried against his knees; pulled in on himself. _More than hiding. **Worse** than hiding._ He felt his throat tighten. _He’s ashamed. Lord God, the man’s ashamed of himself for having been abused._

“Aaron…” It was the gentle, tentative voice one might use to keep a wounded animal from bolting. “Aaron, you do realize none of that was your fault, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” The single syllable conveyed a world of misery.

“You can’t think you in any way _deserved_ what happened to you…can you?”

Hotch sniffed, raising his head. “‘S my problem. No one else’s.”

“Awww, Aaron…it’s not a problem at all. It’s the past. It can’t hurt you anymore if you don’t give it permission to do so.” Rossi scooted closer, wishing a simple touch could drain off the pain pooling in his friend’s eyes.

“Look, Dave. That past is part of who I am. If you’re hoping there’s some kind of closure out there, lurking around the corner, just waiting for me to find it…there’s not. Closure is a myth. Everything that happens to you, all the scars, all the hurt…it may change…but it doesn’t disappear. The door doesn’t close. You just walk further away from it, but it’s still there. Still open. Still leads to the…stuff…on the other side.

“The best I can hope for is not to _inflict_ myself on my son. He’s the one who matters. He’s the one who has a chance to be better…to be…to be…”

“ _Real_?”

Rossi dropped the word into Hotch’s tirade with the finality of a stone hitting bottom. It put a stop to the speech that was coming from the depths of Aaron’s damage. It made him halt, feeling the effects of using more energy than his still-ill body could supply. And maybe it was that feeling of depletion that let him admit his worst to his best friend.

“Yeah. ‘Real.’ Jack has a chance. It’s too late for me. I can move further away from it all, but I can’t move past it, Dave. I’ll get older, not better. That’s who… _what_ …I am. And I don’t want the whole team to know.”

The two men stared into each other’s eyes.

When Rossi’s hand took a place alongside Hotch’s cheek, it was as much to keep him focused, as to comfort him.

“I’ve got some news for you, Aaron.” He held his gaze steady. “Your team already knows.”

Rossi shook his head. “Why do you think they staged that intervention?” His passionate, Italian nature began to build to a temper. “Do you have _any_ idea how much people care about you? It isn’t normal for co-workers to do that, Aaron. It’s because these people who know more about human behavior, and human scars, and human cruelty, who know _you_ …don’t _just_ care about you. They go one better. These people _love_ you. And if you can’t see that, then I’m gonna say Garcia was right the first time: you’re a stupid, stupid man. Which, by the way, is an outburst indicative of how much that woman _hates_ seeing someone she _loves_ in pain.”

Rossi’s fingers gripped the stubborn chin before him. “You _have_ been through a lot worse than most. You’re broken. We understand that. But you’re beautiful, too. And we _do_ see all the damage inside you. Not because you don’t hide it well, but because we’re _that_ good at what we do. And we don’t want you to change. We just want you to stop feeling you need to hide.

“We’ve already seen your twisted insides, Aaron. If you want to keep hiding from us…fine. But realize it’s not keeping you ‘safe.’ It’s just keeping you alone.”

Both men were breathing heavily.

Rossi withdrew his hand, letting it rest on Hotch’s knees still huddled up against his chest.

“Anything you want to say, Aaron?”

Hotch swallowed. “I’m scared.”

“I know. We all know.” Rossi studied the gaunt face. “You want to move on? Try to find Felicia? Maybe put a little more distance between that open door in your past and the rest of your life?”

It took a moment, during which Rossi cobbled together a fervent prayer on his friend’s behalf. But finally…Hotch nodded.

“Okay then. I’ll call Garcia.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Penelope felt as though bird’s wings were fluttering inside her, making her heart soar.

The whole team…all of them…knew what they saw was the aftermath of something terrible that had formed their boss. They couldn’t decipher the initiating factor. But the aftermath was also…a wonderful man.

No one talked about it, but everyone knew there was something in their Unit Chief’s background that he kept under lock and key.

Now Garcia was being told she could take on the role of locksmith.

And it was the kind of search she _loved_.

The kind where she could hear doubt overlaying hope in Rossi’s voice as he asked her to see what she could find out about a black woman named Felicia…no last name…who worked for one of the neighbors in the vicinity of Hotch’s boyhood home.

Garcia’s intuition told her this was a quest that could soothe, as easily as damage, a man who devoted himself to helping others, but whose own life was a struggle. Hotch’s illness lowered his defenses and made his inner disarray so much more painfully clear.

“I’ll get right on it, sir.” Garcia beamed a smile brighter than her eyeshadow.

First order of business: find anyone who had lived anywhere within a one block radius of the address listed on the hospital records of Hotch’s birth. Rossi had said Boss-man didn’t know anything but the one name…Felicia…and the fact that this woman had worked for someone whose property was within shouting distance of Hotchner Senior’s front porch.

Garcia licked her fuchsia lips, pushing her shimmering rainbow glass frames higher on the bridge of her nose.

_Ready or not, Boss-man, here we go…_

_Ready or not, Felicia, here I come…_


	58. Inventive Artists

When Penelope Garcia worked, all sorts of images flashed through her mind.

She saw bolts of lightning jagging through a miasma of bits and bytes, hitting infinitesimal targets that blazed with significance once struck.

She saw undulating sheets of glitter filtering down from immeasurable heights, accumulating in tell-tale drifts over data revealing itself via multiple hits and cross-references.

She saw inquisitive creatures thirsty for knowledge gathering in flocks and herds, drawn by uncanny intuition along the scented trail of discovery.

Quite simply, she saw herself as a superhero, digital weapons flying with phenomenal accuracy; cape-of-many-colors blowing out behind her as she sped upon her mission. And her current mission was all the sweeter because it was on behalf of the man who’d given her the chance to discover just how high she could fly in the first place. If Hotch-rocket was hurting and out of fuel, she’d turn the world upside down and inside out looking for whatever he needed to boost himself aloft again.

Rossi’s call to action had come at an opportune time. No case had presented itself. The team was staying local until called out, wading through paperwork and consults until then. Without the urgency of fieldwork, Garcia could devote whole hours to her search for The Lady Felicia, Mistress of Mystery.

She was immersed in her quest, enjoying every moment. Which is why she startled a good six inches out of her seat when the voice like melted chocolate spoke right beside her ear.

“Hey, Baby Girl, whatcha doin’?”

“ _DEREK!!!_ ”

Morgan jumped back, more alarmed than the brightly-hued tech analyst glaring at him from her sequined nest of splendor…a workstation that had once been efficiently utilitarian until Garcia imposed her personal standards of décor on it.

“What?!”

“Don’t _do_ that!” Garcia turned back to her screens, simmering with the indignity of an artist who’d been interrupted during the creative act. “ _EVER_ again. Or I’ll…I’ll…I’ll post the images of you I’ve photoshopped from my private collection. They’ll be on Twitter…Instagram…Tumblr…Facebook…you name it…. Sneak up on me again and I’ll make them _unavoidable_ on an international scale. The _world_ will see a _new_ Derek Morgan.”

“So long as it’s not a _nude_ Derek Morgan, I can handle it, Mama.”

Garcia’s arch look made him swallow and take a step back.

“Ohhhh…my beautiful, bronze masterpiece, you are frighteningly naïve.” He’d rarely heard a voice so sinister. “What the mind of Penelope can conceive, the digital arts can achieve. Remember that. And don’t tempt me.”

Morgan’s eyes had wandered back to the bank of monitors. “I was just gonna ask you if you wanted to grab some lunch. J.J. and Prentiss took Pretty Boy shopping. Seems geniuses don’t understand one pair of shoes won’t last you the rest of your life. Even if they’re your favorite hightops ever.” His voice took on a plaintive note. “So I’m all on my own. But….” His glance fell on the screen displaying Hotch’s medical records as a boy. “…Hey…What the hell are you up to, Mama?”

Garcia’s stomach flip-flopped. She hadn’t been told that the search for Felicia Somebody was confidential. Not exactly. But, still…she knew it was. The deep part of her soul that made her such a formidable friend knew…just _knew_ …that this was a private matter for her Lord And Liege.

“G-a-r-c-i-a?” Morgan’s trained skills of observation had taken in the various displays with professional speed and accuracy. It was too late to minimize or close anything.

“I’m busy, Chocolate Thunder. You’ll have to eat by yourself, poor baby.” Her voice was prim and crisp as she closed down screen after screen, despite knowing Morgan had already gleaned an eyeful.

Morgan stood back, considering the evidence. The banter in his tone of voice disappeared. “You can’t tell me what’s going on, Penelope?”

“Can’t. Won’t. Sorry.”

“Okay.” He dropped a light touch on her shoulder. “You know I’m here if you need me. And tell that to Hotch or Rossi or… _whoever’s_ pulling your strings on this.” Lacquered nails tapped and he knew she was anxious to get back to work. “Soooo…can I bring you anything for lunch, Baby Girl?”

The smile Garcia gave Morgan was wide; full of gratitude for tacit understanding and outright support. “Tuna salad?”

“You got it.”

“Derek?”

“Hmmmm?”

“Thank you.”

He winked. She watched him leave before bringing up her screens again, thinking that, really, she worked with the best bunch of people in the whole entire… _galaxy_ …

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Marty watched Rossi head for the Scotch. He waited until a glass had been poured and a sip taken before speaking.

“Everything go okay up there, Dave?”

He received an ungracious grunt in response.

“I need to check him over…take his temperature…that kind of thing. Any rough edges you want me to try and smooth out?”

Rossi took another, larger swallow. “I called Garcia. Got the search for Felicia underway. But…” He glanced back the way he’d come. “…we can’t fix what’s wrong with him. Because, yes, he’s broken, but nothing’s _wrong_ with him. And he’s the only one who doesn’t know that.”

“Yeah, but we’re not trying to fix him. He’s the author of his own pain. We’re just trying to ease it a little. Opening up some of those cracks he needs…to let light inside…to let the pressure out before he explodes…and to let other stuff escape so the rest of us can enjoy what he’s got inside that he keeps under such tight guard.”

“He’s scared, Marty. And I don’t blame him. Whatever we find, it’s gonna touch him so deep, good or bad, it’s gonna hurt.” Rossi swirled the liquor in his glass, studying the amber ripples. His voice was small when he spoke again. “I hate it when he hurts.”

The doctor glanced toward the living room where Jack was still singing along with a large, bouncy, Disney lion.

“Well, I know one thing that’ll help him put it all in perspective. How ‘bout you give Jack a bath and get him ready for a nap? I’ll check out his Daddy and then we’ll put them together and let them be each other’s medicine. Sound good?”

Rossi smiled. “Sounds great.” He brandished his drink. “I’ll just finish this first.”

“Okay. See you guys up there.” Marty plodded toward the stairs, already thinking he’d have to wipe off some of Aaron’s leopard spots so he could judge the progress of the measles rash. But Jack had been leopardizing everything in sight. The doctor was sure he wouldn’t mind re-doing his father’s pelt.

 

xxxxxx

 

Little Jack Hotchner _had_ been enjoying the stencils and washable markers Prentiss had supplied. So much so, that he’d nearly worn out the favored bright pink and lavender ones; the colors that put him most in mind of raspberries.

But Jack was an industrious boy. One who already looked for ways to solve his own dilemmas before asking grown-ups for help.

While he and Dr. Palmer had been watching T.V., and talking, and playing with Mudgie and Fudge, he’d seen some brand new, fresh markers Poppi kept in a container on the counter by his old-fashioned, land line phone. Jack was sure Poppi wouldn’t mind if he borrowed one or two.

And there was one that was an even better, brighter, raspberry color than any of the ones Ms. Prentiss had given him. So when he was told to gather the toys he wanted to bring upstairs to play with Daddy after his bath, Jack included the vibrant red, indelible Sharpie in his stash.

He could hardly wait to see how it would look on Daddy.


	59. De-Leopard, Re-Leopard

Garcia munched on her tuna salad sandwich, barely tasting the hints of dill and lemon.

Morgan had purchased it from the gourmet bistro ten miles away, rather than patronizing the luncheonette across the street. He’d hoped that it would serve as a bribe, lowering Penelope’s defenses enough to afford him a glimpse into whatever she was working on that concerned Hotch. But even the giant cookie he’d added to his offering didn’t budge her. In fact, she’d hardly noticed when he set the colorful bag labeled ‘Rizzo’s Luxe Lunches’ before her.

She’d thanked him, but when he took a seat beside her, trying to look as though all he had in mind was sharing a meal, she’d raised one brow, muttering ‘ _Private_ photoshop collection, Derek… ** _very_** _private._ ’ He’d taken the hint and gone back to eat a lonely lunch at his desk; an activity enlivened only when J.J. and Prentiss returned with a somewhat befuddled Reid.

The experience of shopping with two veterans of the retail world had left the genius with a glazed look in his eye and a pair of luridly turquoise hightops on his feet. J.J. and Emily admired them, telling their young charge that they were reflective of his personality…an attribute to which all successful accessories aspired. Morgan wasn’t sure about terming accessories ‘successful.’ But he did know the vibrant footwear would afford him days…weeks even…of humorous barbs at Reid’s expense.

It made being spurned by Garcia a little easier to take.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

While floors away, Reid was propping his feet up on his desk, staring at the sky-bright blue encompassing his ankles, Garcia had abandoned all pretense of eating. She’d entered her ‘zone.’ Mind and fingers speeding at optimum velocities.

Finding Hotch’s birthplace had been easy enough. The town of Bluefields, Virginia, was part of his official file. But no one had ever had cause to research the place. When Garcia brought up information on it, she’d gasped. The 2010 census that came to the top of the list credited Bluefields with only about 800 residents.

That was less than some cities’ high school attendance statistics. She blinked and dug deeper, wondering just how small the population had been around forty years ago, the time when Rossi estimated Felicia had entered Hotch’s life.

What she found piqued her curiosity even more.

Bluefields had been a burgeoning township of nearly 10,000 when it claimed the Hotchners among its numbers. Garcia knew that most such instances of decline were attributable to economic factors. But she couldn’t help the chill that pebbled her skin, nor the fanciful voice in her mind that whispered ‘ _cursed._ ’

Rossi didn’t need to tell her, nor any of them, that Hotch’s background included a darkness several shades blacker than what lurked in most people’s skeleton-filled closets. But poking into the Unit Chief’s past gave her an inexplicably uneasy feeling.

Garcia shook herself; she could probe the town’s degeneration later. Now, she needed Hotch’s boyhood address. It was a simple matter of accessing archives from the County Assessor’s office. The only Hotchner household in town had paid taxes regularly on 509 Sorghum Street, a sizeable structure that made the tech analyst think of gracious, Southern living of a bygone era.

Sorghum Street ran through the center of an affluent neighborhood. Maps showed the land was divided into plots, approximately one-quarter acre per house. Garcia’s brows rose. Rossi had been clear that when he said ‘shouting distance,’ he meant it literally. _So unless this Felicia was a trained opera singer with lungs twice the capacity of Caruso’s, she **had** to have worked in one of the properties immediately bordering Hotch’s home._

Penelope smiled. She’d been worried that the neighborhood would turn out to be row after row of small, clapboard houses, nestled side by side by front by back, making her search include dozens of addresses. She hadn’t known how blueblood Boss-man was by birth. Based on what she was seeing, there couldn’t be more than six residences close enough for an old woman’s voice to carry.

She was still puzzled about the criterion Rossi had imposed on her search, but, with the trail before her becoming clearer, she was off and running.

Garcia knew exactly what she’d need: more tax forms, bank statements, property titles. The only things that could sideline her now would be if, in the intervening four decades, files had been lost or hadn’t been brought into the computer age, or…if Felicia had been kept on the shady side of things; paid in cash, never officially appearing in an employer’s records.

Even then, she was sure she could ferret out something useful. After all, ‘Felicia’ wasn’t exactly a common name.

Garcia took a deep breath and plunged into her quest involving the Hotch-World of Days Of Yore.

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

Marty tapped on Hotch’s door, entering without waiting for permission. It was a liberty his patient didn’t seem to mind.

And in this case, didn’t even seem to hear.

Hotch was out of bed. Arms wrapped around himself, he leaned against the frame of one of the tall, lead-paned windows, gazing out at Rossi’s manicured wealth of lawn and azalea bushes. The doctor approached to within inches without being noticed.

“Son?” He could see from his angle that Aaron’s expression was vacant. He was oblivious to the scenery. A fire-breathing dragon could have set the trimmed boxwood hedges alight and, even as the reflected flames danced in his eyes, the man wouldn’t have noticed.

“Son.” Marty reached out, gripping a bicep hard with tension. Hotch jolted, but when he turned, he didn’t look startled. His eyes were wide and unguarded, still partially enthralled by whatever inner world he’d been exploring.

“Hi, Marty.”

The doctor turned his patient around to face him. He looked at him in silence, giving him a chance to speak, if he had any more to say. But all Hotch did was unfold his arms and let himself be observed.

“I need to check you over, Aaron…” He paused. “…unless there’s something you’d like to talk about?”

“Dave talked to you? Told you about…everything?”

“Well, I have a feeling he always leaves some things out. And a lot of it I can figure out for myself. But, yeah, I know about your childhood…and Felicia.” Marty guided his patient back toward the bed with a gentle, firm touch. “Of course, anything you’d like to discuss, I’d be more than happy to lend an ear.”

Hotch shrugged, sitting on the mattress edge, a distant look in his eyes again. “I dunno.”

“Might help.”

He pulled himself back to the present. “I mean, I don’t know where to start. I’m…just…not sure.”

The doctor sighed, reaching for the thermometer that now had a permanent home on the nightstand. “How about I look at you, and you begin by telling me…oh, I don’t know…what were you thinking just now? When you were looking out the window?”

Hotch’s brows pulled together in a concerned furrow. “That’s just it, Marty. I keep trying to remember things and it’s just bits and pieces.” He brought both hands up as though he could rub the confusion from his eyes, but the doctor pressed them back down, placing a stethoscope against his chest and signaling for a few seconds of silent breathing.

When he had finished listening to Hotch’s lungs, he pushed him back onto the bed, pulling the covers over him and up to his waist. He prompted the conversation to continue. “You can’t recall as much as you think you should?”

“No. It’s…” Hotch shook his head, frowning. “Every time I try, it’s like a piece of cardboard is there between me and…all of it. And I feel…I feel…”

Marty remembered Rossi’s words. He placed a comforting hand on Hotch’s shoulder. “It’s alright to be scared, son.”

“No. That’s not it.” His voice held a note of frustration. “I don’t feel _anything_ at first. Nothing. And the more I try…well, that’s when…” Hotch’s wide eyes fastened on the doctor’s. “…that’s when I feel _panic_.” He studied the professional, medical man before him. “Marty…do I have PTSD?”

The doctor sat back, considering. He pulled a bottle of cortisone lotion and a packet of antiseptic pads from his bag, buying time to review all he knew of his patient’s background. “Scoot a little closer, son. I need to de-leopardize you a little so I can check how that rash is doing.”

Once he’d begun dabbing at Hotch’s skin, Marty continued on in a low, reflective voice. “I don’t know enough to give you a definitive answer about PTSD, Aaron. It would take a lot more talk and time before I could form a medically valid opinion.”

He glanced up, noting Hotch’s vital interest in every word. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if you still had some defensive mechanisms in place that prevent you from thinking too much about that part of your life.” He continued to wipe away Jack’s handiwork. “I also think I’d like to counsel you to…once again…as I did concerning your physical scars…to give yourself time. You’ve had a bit of a shock today. You need time to absorb and adjust. Your mind knows that, even if not consciously.”

Marty capped the bottle of lotion, tucking it back in his bag. “I also want to plant the seed while your mind is open to it, that part of the reason you’re exemplary at your job, is your ability to empathize. You already know that. What you might _not_ know is that all that trauma, all the hardness you endured as a child, is part of what formed your empathic talent. So no matter what you find, or what you remember on your own, you should be proud of how you’ve handled it. You’ve turned tragedy to advantage, and from what I’m told, there are a tremendous number of people in this world who’ve benefitted and wouldn’t want you any other way. People who thank their lucky stars Agent Hotchner is the man he is.

“As for the rest of it…the panic when you push to remember too much, too soon? I think you should relax, take your mind off it for now. Let things move at their own pace without any sense of urgency. You have the rest of your life to figure things out. No need to rush.” Marty paused, changing focus. “Now, let me look at that rash…”

Hotch laid still, letting himself be examined. He recognized the wisdom of the doctor’s words, but his brain felt trapped, running a repetitive route through the fringes of his childhood; very much like the hamster wheel Rossi accused him of housing.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

In the end, as near perfect a solution as could be found was mere feet away.

As Marty was cleaning up the used antiseptic pads, now tinged with leopard-pastels, he saw the gift bag Prentiss had left; the bag from which she’d produced the aromatherapy pillow. No one had thought to see what else it contained.

It provided much-needed distraction for Hotch. He winced at the ‘Ribs for your ribs’ gift certificate, knowing it for the subtle prod it was to gain weight. He stared in fascination at the fluffy, plush wolf as it puppy-growled its repertoire of customized greetings. By the time it had run through them all, Hotch was holding one hand against his left side, protecting his ribs from the unaccustomed disturbance of chuckling.

But the item for which Marty was most grateful was the book on coin collecting. It was something in which Aaron seemed to have genuine interest. He left his patient resting comfortably, nose buried in its pages.

When Jack arrived, damp from his bath and eager for time with Daddy, the doctor felt both Hotchners were on track for full recovery. From the doorway, he and Rossi watched the child cuddle up against his father’s side. Hotch nuzzled his son, then wrapped one arm around him as he continued to read.

Jack organized his puzzles, stencils, markers, and coloring books so all were within easy reach. When he was satisfied with their placement, he turned worshipful eyes on his Leopard Chief. The small face frowned. He squirmed about to study the lean, muscled arm embracing him.

“Daddy, where’s your spots?”

“Huh?” Hotch glanced over at what was troubling his boy. “Oh. Yeah. Dr. Palmer had to take some of them off, Buddy.” He ruffled the still-wet hair with one hand. “You wanna fix me back up?”

Jack cast his best junior glare at the two older men lingering by the door, letting them know what he thought of the regrettable need to defile leopard-art.

Marty nudged Rossi. “I think I just became _persona non grata_.”

“‘S okay.” Rossi stage-whispered. “I’ve got something downstairs that’ll help you drown your sorrows...forget all about the vile crimes you commit in the name of healing, you old quack.”

As the two friends left, pulling the door almost closed, Hotch had gone back to reading. They heard Jack’s piping voice reassuring Daddy.

“Yeah. I’ll fix it.” A note of enthusiasm crept in. “…an’ these spots’ll be even _better_. _Loads_ better!”

 

 

 

 


	60. Missteps

Hotch took the doctor’s advice about letting his thought processes immerse themselves in something different. He lost himself in reading the book on coins Prentiss had brought him.

With the book held up before his eyes, he allowed Jack unimpeded access to his body. He only had a vague awareness of the boy busily working on his arms and then his stomach, which occasionally tickled and made him smile.

Jack was talking aloud, but mostly to himself; the kind of sing-song, vocalized inner dialogue that children seemed to find as enjoyable as having a playmate present. Hotch made encouraging, rumbling sounds every once in a while, giving a subtle, leopard-type growl in answer whenever Jack did his own leopard impression. But, for the most part, he let his son entertain himself.

Jack understood.

Daddy needed rest and playtime, too. He agreed reading could be fun, but only if there were lots of pictures, or someone you loved was snuggled against you, helping you over the difficult bits. He hadn’t quite wrapped his brain around the concept of finding pages of close-knit text enjoyable.

But if Daddy liked it, then maybe someday he’d figure it out and like it, too. So it was okay. And it meant that all his hard work making Daddy the best Leopard Chief ever, with the best spots ever, would be a happy surprise when Daddy finally closed his book.

And Jack loved it when his father’s tummy muscles jerked in response to his coloring. It made Daddy chuckle and sometimes growl. So Jack had to admit, he was spending a little more time on Daddy’s tummy-spots than was strictly necessary.

The Sharpie moved over Hotch’s skin.

The tummy jumped.

Hotch growled.

Jack giggled.

The Sharpie continued on.

It was a lovely evening.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Garcia pushed back from her desk, frowning, chewing on her lip, tasting the faint flavor of Revlon’s Frosted Berry gloss.

She had felt herself closing in on Felicia. But even as she found the woman, she hit a snag.

She’d retrieved the names of those who’d owned property thirty to forty years ago adjacent to Hotch’s home. Then she’d accessed tax returns to find the owners’ banking institutions at the time.

In the intervening years, some banks had changed names or closed down completely, transferring their assets to new institutions. With dogged determination, Garcia traced down every paper trail she could find. It was lucky that banks were obsessive when it came to keeping records. It was their best defense against lawsuits, embezzlement, and accusations of mishandling when change of any kind came knocking on their ponderous, imposing doors.

And deep within the system, buried beneath decades of disinterest, she found Felicia. But it began and ended there. One name. No other information.

What Garcia had unearthed was the faded image of a check for fifty dollars. It was made out to ‘Cash.’ The account owner had withdrawn the funds himself. But in tiny, cramped letters, scrawled across the lower left-hand corner where room was supplied for notations, were the words ‘Felicia – severance.’

The tech analyst sighed. She could feel a story lurking behind the flat image. She would continue rooting through the records, but instinct told her that this would be her only clue. She imagined severance had been a sizeable chunk compared to regular earnings. Most likely Felicia had been paid out of her employer’s pocket each week, or, if she was hired on an occasional basis, upon completion of whatever task she’d been assigned. Which meant no tax records, no W2 forms; nothing immediately traceable.

Penelope’s eyes wandered to the name on the account. Ernest Bledsoe…who lived at 513 Sorghum Street, Bluefields, Virginia. They’d lived across the street and down one lot from the Hotchners. It didn’t sound far, but, considering the size of each parcel of land, she was still impressed with Felicia’s vocal power. ‘Shouting distance’ was a good quarter acre away.

Garcia’s fingers flew, searching for a phone number attached to the Bledsoe’s address…and stopped. The residence had changed hands twelve years after Felicia had been dismissed. The property had passed to a family named Thompson. A family that intuition told her had no significance in the search for Felicia.

The Bledsoes had moved on, taking Garcia’s most promising lead to finding Hotch’s mystery woman with them.

Eyes that shimmered in silver glitter shadow narrowed behind their rainbow frames. This was something her Captain-my-Captain needed. If she had to cast her net over every tiny, infinitesimal, parish and township in the entire South…the entire _world_ …she would find the Bledsoes. If the name had died out, if she had to trace down their genealogy and knock on every descendant’s door herself…Penelope vowed, it _would_ be done.

All her built-up vehemence and determination slammed to a halt, however, when she did a quick nationwide search as a starting point…and found seven Ernest Bledsoes. One was in Virginia.

In Fairfax.

Twenty nine miles away.

A forty-four minute drive.

“Oh. This has _got_ to be, if not _the_ Ernest Bledsoe, then surely his next-of-kin. _Has_ to be.” Garcia’s glossy lips spread in a smile as she punched in the Bledsoes’ phone number.

They might not know where Felicia was now, but there was a chance someone would remember her last name.

Armed with that, Garcia could work wonders.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Jack had been thinking.

Leopards didn’t just have spots. He’d been studying the one in his Day At The Zoo coloring book. Leopards… _real_ leopards…had long tails and big claws. He sat back, considering Daddy’s body. Tails and claws weren’t possible. He’d have to forget about them.

Leopards had fairly small, rounded ears. He reared back again, bringing Daddy’s ears into view. They weren’t perfect, but they’d do.

Jack chewed on the inside of his cheek, looking at the other prominent features of the line drawing. He’d been able to color everything on the picture-leopard, except the nose. It was printed black already. That meant you could be pretty sure _all_ leopards had black noses. And if they didn’t let you choose the color, it must be pretty important for _all_ leopards to have the same thing.

And whiskers. Now that he took the time to really look, the whiskers were already printed in black, too. Jack eyed the black Sharpie. The red one was almost out of ink. The black one was nice and fresh.

“Daddy?”

“Hmmmm?”

“Can I give you a leopard nose and whiskers? Like in my picture?”

“Sure, Buddy.”

It wasn’t until he saw the black Sharpie coming at him over the top of his book, aimed at the tip of his nose, that Hotch realized its implication…and the full horror of his situation.

 

xxxxxx

 

If it had been a real case, Garcia would never have tried contacting a subject without prior authorization.

But this wasn’t a _real_ case. And she only wanted to find out one thing: Felicia’s last name. And she _so_ wanted to be able to call Rossi back and lay the information he needed before him like jeweled offerings to a king. So she punched in the number listed and held her breath, sending up a prayer to the Great Information Gods to let this be _that_ Ernest Bledsoe.

The voice that answered on the fourth ring was female, of indeterminate age, and smoothly professional.

“Bledsoe residence.”

“Uh…hi…hello.” Garcia had a sudden appreciation for the ease with which the others on the team knew how to phrase requests for information, paving the way for maximum success. “I…uh…” She took a sharp breath, gathering herself. “This is gonna sound kind of weird, but I’m looking for an Ernest Bledsoe who lived in Bluefields years and years ago. Is that you? Please?”

“And you are…?”

“Oh! Sorry! I’m…I’m Penelope…Garcia…. And I’m looking for Ernest Bledsoe and I hoped it’d be you…or you know…someone you know?”

By its tone, the voice hadn’t decided whether it found this caller amusing or impertinent. “I’m Mr. Bledsoe’s caregiver. May I ask what this is in reference to?”

“Well, it’s about someone who I think worked for Mr. Bledsoe when he lived in Bluefields. Her name’s Felicia, but I’m really, really hoping he can tell me her last name? If I could ask him? Or if you could? For me?”

“What?” The voice registered confusion and maybe it was getting a little impatient at the unexpected request and the rambling way in which it was presented.

Garcia sighed and took the plunge. “Look, I’ll level with you. I’m trying to find out about a woman who might have worked for Mr. Bledsoe and also knew his neighbors, the Hotchners.”

“Hotchners? What?”

“ _HOTCHNER!!!??!_ ” The voice that carried over the line, slicing through with the keenness of a scalpel, was male and definitely older. And at a bit of a distance from the phone. Despite being in the background, Garcia caught every shouted word.

“ _You tell that son-of-a-bitch Hotchner, if he **ever** shows up here, I’ll skin him alive and tack his stinking hide to the wall!! GOT IT??!!?_ ”

The caregiver’s voice returned as the other faded into muttered curses. “I’m sorry. Mr. Bledsoe shouldn’t be upset. Please don’t call here again.”

The connection ended.

Garcia stared at her phone and realized her heart was beating double-time. She also realized that, real case or not, it probably would have been a good idea to leave actual contact to someone else. Shaking, hoping she hadn’t done irreparable damage to whatever this quest was…Penelope dialed her phone again.

“Hi, Rossi? I need to tell you something…” She hated that her voice sounded so small. And that she couldn’t keep the tremble out of it.

And that what she was laying before him was absolutely, definitely _not_ the jeweled gift of her imagination.


	61. Troubled Times

“Whoa! Jack!”

Hotch recoiled. His hand shot up, arresting the forward motion of the black marker centimeters from his nose; sacrificing his palm to a number of indelible squiggles in the process. When the pen stopped, he lowered his hand and stared, letting the significance of the situation penetrate.

The pointed tip was so close, his eyes crossed to bring it into focus. The uneasy stirring in his stomach increased as Jack giggled at Daddy’s funny face. But after a frozen moment with the Sharpie poised, Jack sensed something was wrong.

“Daddy?”

Trapped beneath Jack’s small, importunate body, Hotch was longing to toss him off and take a look at himself. But his own past made him hyper-aware of his behavior when in father-mode. He always tamped down any alarm where children were concerned. At least, until he knew if there was ample cause for alarm. The only time he felt nervous, unable to enjoy Jack’s company, was when discipline was involved. It was part of the sad baggage he carried thanks to Hotchner, Sr..

“Uh…Buddy…is _that_ what you’ve been using to draw spots?”

Jack’s face broke into a wide grin. “No! Black is for noses and whiskers.”

Hotch relaxed, smiling in turn. “Good. Where did that come from?”

“From Poppi. It was downstairs.”

“Well, you need to put that back, and only play with the ones that came with the leopard-spot kit, okay? Those are the only ones you should use.”

Jack blinked. He was working through the whole equation and getting his own uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He _hadn’t_ used the black pen…which was good. But he hadn’t confined his work to the pens Ms. Prentiss had supplied either…which might be bad….might be very, _very_ bad.

Hotch saw the gradual transformation in his son’s expression. He swallowed.

“Jack, is there anything you want to tell me?”

The miserable look on his boy’s face as he gave a slow nod tore at Hotch’s heart. With hands that generated love through their very fingertips, he lifted his son from his perch atop Daddy’s tummy, placing him on the bed at his side…and, in the process, seeing his own arms coated with brilliant red splotches.

He remembered the tickling on his stomach that he was sure had been intentional once Jack discovered it could elicit a chuckle with a growl chaser. Hotch peeled the hem of his t-shirt away from his skin, raising it to mid-chest, peering down at himself.

“Daddy?”

Hotch blinked, staring at wall-to-wall spots. “Buddy, do you understand that you should _never_ take any of Poppi’s pens without asking permission? And only use the pens that were meant for making leopards?”

Jack nodded, eyes fixed on Daddy’s face, painfully aware that the grin he loved so much was nowhere to be seen.

Hotch sighed, craning his neck farther so he could get a better view of himself from abs to pecs, noting the careful placement and meticulous coverage.

“Was I bad?” His son’s liquid eyes watched, waiting for the verdict.

Hotch dropped his shirt back into place, pulling Jack onto his lap so they were eye to eye. “Buddy, I want you to listen carefully. What you _did_ wasn’t a good thing. But you’re not bad. You’re the best-est, most wonderful-est son in the world. And I love you more than _anything_. And I’m proud of you. And we both learned something today.”

Jack’s puzzlement was plain to see.

“You learned not to use Poppi’s things without asking first. And I learned that…” Hotch’s grin bloomed forth, erasing every last trace of anxiety from his son’s face. “…my Buddy has some talent as an artist. I never had the chance to play with things like that when I was a kid. Maybe we could get some paints and do some stuff together.”

Jack launched himself forward and up, throwing his arms around Daddy’s neck.

Hotch gave a soft growl, recognizing his cub’s pounce for what it was: a tribute of love.

Silently, he congratulated himself on, once again, navigating the tricky art of discipline. He wanted Jack to be confident, unafraid of making mistakes; sure that, when he inevitably did during the course of his life, he would still be loved to the height and depth and breadth of his father’s soul.

It was an assurance Hotch would have given anything to have when he was Jack’s age.

 

xxxxxx

 

Rossi sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He should have known.

“It’s alright, Penelope. I know you were trying to help.”

Marty stood by, listening to the one-sided conversation. Judging by her culinary efforts, which still commanded awe every time the refrigerator door was opened, he had a feeling going overboard was something that came naturally to the tech analyst. It sounded as though she’d done so in her search for Felicia with less than happy results.

He couldn’t help smiling. In the course of his career, he would have given a king’s ransom for someone like Garcia to be part of his crew. Reliable enthusiasm was a rare commodity. It was worth the occasional misstep.

“No, I’ll take it from here. Just send the information to my phone. And if you find anything else, let me know.” Rossi’s lips crooked upward with amusement. “No, I’m sure Mr. Bledsoe doesn’t hate Hotch because of anything you’ve done.”

Marty’s brows rose, curious to know the full picture of whatever Garcia had found.

“Penelope, it’s okay. Good job. We didn’t have any leads. Now we do. Thanks for that.” Rossi disconnected the call, bringing up the Bledsoe address and phone number as they arrived.

“She found Felicia?”

“No.” Rossi shook his head, still poring over the display on his phone. “But she found someone the lady might have worked for.” Chuckling, he related the details of Garcia’s search, ending with her ill-advised call. “Apparently, when she mentioned the name ‘Hotchner,’ the guy went ballistic. I guess Aaron’s father left an impression on his neighbors as well as his son.”

Marty frowned. “You sure about that?”

Rossi responded with a frown of his own. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you said this Bledsoe guy was around for another twelve years after Felicia’s dismissal.”

“Yeah, so?”

The doctor scratched his head, considering a troubling alternative to his friend’s assumption. “Dave, if Aaron was…what?...five or six or seven when the blowup with Felicia happened, and Bledsoe’s family was there for another twelve years…he would’ve known Aaron as a teenager.”

The men’s eyes met.

“What kind of kid do you think a boy who was abused like that would grow into when all those adolescent hormones hit him?”

Rossi’s expression morphed into one of speculation, gaze turned inward, voice low. “An angry, rebellious bully…someone determined to defend himself _before_ there’s an attack.” After a moment of thoughtful silence, he shook his head. “N-o-o-o-o…I can’t see that, Marty. Not Aaron.”

“You don’t think by then he’d know who was, if not responsible, then _complicit_ in letting Felicia go? You don’t think teenage Aaron might want to lash back at the people, the _town_ , that sat by and watched his father torture him?”

Despite still shaking his head in small, disbelieving increments, Rossi _was_ considering the possibility. But the discussion took a detour when little Jack Hotchner appeared at his hip, looking contrite.

“Jack? Everything okay?”

“I took these, Poppi.” The small fist offered two Sharpies, one black, one red.

“Oh. Well, thank you for bringing them back.” Rossi returned the pens to their place by the landline phone.

“I used the red one up.”

“That’s alright. I have others.” Rossi was getting the feeling he was missing something; something that Jack was determined to reveal. He didn’t have to wonder for long.

“I used it up on Daddy.”

The older men exchanged glances, lips compressed to hide any inappropriate outbursts of mirth.

“Daddy said he could use some help.”

Rossi nodded. Placing a hand on Jack’s back, he steered him toward the doctor. “Marty, maybe you can find this young man a treat in the kitchen.” He was having a hard time keeping the laughter from bubbling up. “I’ll just go upstairs and…uh…see…uh…see…see…”

 

xxxxxx

 

Standing in the bathroom, struggling with soap, water, and a washcloth that was doing little more than abrading his skin, rendering it as red as the leopard spots, Hotch heard Rossi’s laughter echoing up the staircase….


	62. Spot On, Spot Off

_Yeah, yeah…yuk it up_.

Hotch continued scrubbing at his Sharpie-embellished skin, listening to Rossi’s approaching laughter. He was aware soap and water were accomplishing nothing, but he didn’t know what else to do.

_At least my face is okay._

The visual image of having to greet his team sporting a spunky, little, black-tipped nose and long, elegant whiskers assaulted him with unremitting shudders of vicarious humiliation. He was deep within the nightmarish imaginings when hands took a gentle grip on his upper arms, turning him around for a better view.

Rossi did try, but smothering the urge to laugh resulted in a sputtering, wheezing explosion that thoroughly disgusted Hotch. The Leopard Chief pulled away from his friend, returning to the fruitless task of de-spotting.

“Shut up, Dave.”

Rossi let his mirth run its course, but once done, he assumed a serious demeanor; one he knew Hotch would deem more appropriate to the situation.

“Aaron, Aaron, Aaron. Calm down.” The older man stood behind his friend, marveling at the spotted image reflected in the mirror over the sink.

Hanging his head, Hotch stopped scouring himself and gave a deep sigh. “Didn’t mean to snap. I’m sorry.” He looked up into the mirror, seeing his defaced arms and midriff again. Lips thinned to a grim line, he resumed his efforts. “I know it’s not your fault. But…it just…won’t… come... off…” Each word was punctuated by a punishing swipe of the washcloth.

Rossi mastered himself, managing to sound, if not solemn, then at least more sympathetic. “Aaron, stop.” He took hold of Hotch’s wrist, halting the obsessive scrubbing. When the younger man swayed and had to readjust his footing to keep his balance, Rossi’s tone took on a genuine note of concern.

“Aaron, you’re still sick. All you’re doing is wearing yourself out.” The defeated look on Hotch’s face told Rossi his assessment was accurate. “Go back to bed and we’ll figure this out. You can’t be the first person in the world to find himself on the wrong end of a Sharpie. C’mon.”

Hotch obeyed, dabbing at his now tender skin with a towel before following Rossi.

When he was once again lying on top of the bedclothes, resplendent in his raspberry markings, Rossi took out his phone.

“Swear to God, Dave, if you take a picture of me …When I get well, I’ll find a way to make you regret it. For the rest of your life. For as long as these spots last.” He scanned his body again. “Which might be forever. Put it away, Dave.”

“Aaron! I’m hurt you’d even consider such a thing.” However, the voice was too smarmy to be reassuring. Rossi continued blithely on, despite the suspicious glare trained on him. “I’m calling the one person most likely to have the answer to your dilemma right at his fingertips.”

He waited while the phone rang, giving Hotch a sidelong glance filled with righteous indignation. “Amusing myself at your expense…disparaging my noble nature…sheesh…you think you know a guy…”

When the call was picked up, Rossi straightened. “Reid! I need your encyclopedic knowledge, if you have a minute. I’m putting you on speaker.”

“Hey, Rossi. How’re Hotch and Jack doing?”

“They’re fine…mostly…” A chuckle escaped, but was stifled almost immediately. “But we do have a… _situation_ here I was hoping you’d be able to shed some light on.”

“Sure. What’s up?” Reid adored being used as a resource. He could practically feel his brain straining at the leash, eager for the challenge.

“Well, we had a little mishap with indelible ink. Sharpies.”

A beat of silence fell as Reid’s synapses fired at more than lightning speed. But it was the situation, not the solution that claimed their attention. He ran through the facts and arrived at the most likely scenario.

“Is it Hotch? Did Jack color Hotch?” Before Rossi could confirm or deny, muffled laughter came through the speaker. Rossi fought to keep his own face straight.

Reid’s mirth was short-lived out of respect for his boss. He regained his composure, giving every impression that he was back on track. “So…you need to know how to remove the marks?”

“Yes.” Hotch answered, making that one syllable sound like a reprimand.

It would never be known if what happened next was strictly necessary.

“Okay…well…uh…it would help to know the… _extent_ …of the damage. And _where_ …”

Rossi grabbed the phone, snapping a full-length photo of the Unit Chief reclining on the bed, shirtless. Spots rampant. Glaring.

“Sending it your way… _now_.”

A few seconds later, a single bark of laughter sent Hotch struggling his way under the covers, pulling them up to his neck for maximum coverage. But he knew it was too late. He just hoped he wouldn’t become the BAU Christmas card that year.

“Okay. Okay. I got this.” Reid regained his composure, assuming lecture mode.

“So…there are several things you can do, but realize it’ll take time no matter what you try. Just be aware you’ll need a _spot_ of patience, Hotch.” It sounded as though he turned away from the phone. Hotch frowned; it was suspiciously as though he were covering a chuckle.

“Anyway…acetone works. You’ll need to saturate something like cotton balls or fabric. Then blot and wipe, which can be irritating, especially to sensitive skin on…you know…your stomach…or anywhere else involved that could be termed _delicate_.

“Acetone?” Rossi raised his brows.

“Like in nail polish remover. Too bad you’re not here. Garcia carries it around with her. But, like I said, that could be irritating, especially ‘cause it looks like you’ve already abraded the area.” The young genius’ voice brightened. “Hey, did you know that President Bush rejected all writing utensils _except_ for Sharpies? He did! He even had a private stash emblazoned with a reproduction of his signature and…”

“ _Reid!_ ” Hotch called the agent back from what threatened to be an endless meandering through incidental trivia.

“Sorry.”

Despite resistance, Rossi pulled the covers out of Hotch’s clutched fists. He pulled them down, peering at Hotch’s reddened skin. “I don’t think acetone’s a good idea. Could cause chemical burns the way it looks right now. Got anything else?”

Reid’s voice chirped merrily on, telling of the varying success rates of removing indelible ink with hand sanitizer, toothpaste, sunscreen. When he came to isopropyl alcohol, Rossi shook his head.

“I think that’d be like the acetone. He’s already rubbed his skin raw. It’d just burn too much.”

“ _Spot_ on, Rossi.”

Hotch’s head snapped toward the speaker, subjecting it to his best glare. He had a feeling he was being taunted, but Reid normally didn’t engage in that kind of thing. He decided to give him the benefit of the  doubt. But when the young doctor signed off, saying he hoped the ink removal worked out for the best, and he was going for a ‘spot’ of tea…Hotch was pretty sure.

In the end, hand sanitizer that Marty carried in his bag was the option selected.

Rossi set Hotch up with some soft cloths, leaving him to dab and rub the gel onto himself in private. Marty had taken Jack back downstairs when it looked as though Hotch would need some time to concentrate on the task at hand. As he went to join the others, Rossi took a last glance at his spotted friend, thinking that the Unit Chief looked very much like a large leopard, licking his wounds.

 

xxxxxx

 

Downstairs, Rossi pulled up the information on Ernest Bledsoe that Garcia had sent.

The address wasn’t that far away…less than an hour’s drive. He’d learn more during a face-to-face encounter than over the phone, particularly since he was curious about the man’s reaction to hearing the name ‘Hotchner.’

The quest had become two-pronged. It was no longer just a search for Felicia. It was becoming an investigation into the Hotchners as well. Marty’s supposition about teenage Aaron was intriguing. He knew Hotch had been sent to boarding school at some point. He’d been under the impression that that was after his father had passed away.

Rossi wanted to help Aaron in any way he could. He hoped knowing more about that troubled time in his friend’s past would give him the key to unlock the cage he sensed confined a soul still aching from childhood wounds. He watched Jack and Marty playing with the dogs, wondering what he’d find out from Mr. Bledsoe.

_Was Aaron sent away because he needed to be removed from an unhealthy place that had caused him too much pain?...Or did the **town** need saving from an angry, young man?_

Rossi picked up a favored picture he kept framed on his mantle. In descending height, Hotch, himself, and Jack…standing together like a family portrait. Gazing at it, he felt his stomach tighten.

_I’m gonna find out what happened to you, Aaron. And then, I’ll do my best to make it alright again._

He pocketed the photo, calling over his shoulder. “Marty, it’s still early. I think I’ll go for a drive.”

The doctor looked up. “Fairfax?”

“Yeah.”

Marty nodded. “Well, whatever you find…we’ll be here when you get back.”

Rossi left, feeling that he was closing a door on the present, and opening one into the past.


	63. Making Bledsoe's Day

Rossi cut the engine and inspected his surroundings.

During the drive to Fairfax he’d made one call and received one.

Garcia had been relieved when he contacted her. She was still digging through a sea of incidental information about the Hotchners’ neighbors, knowing in her bones that she’d already unearthed the prime clue to Felicia’s fate. Still, the search gave her some idea of the lifestyle enjoyed by the upper echelons of Bluefields, VA. She thought it might be useful to Rossi…and she wanted one more reassurance that she hadn’t bumbled her way into something, inadvertently harming her beloved leader.

“The Bledsoes were on the same economic tier as the Hotchners and everyone else in that neighborhood, Rossi. But…” She peered at the columns of figures tracking down her screen, noting patterns. “…but their fortunes took a turn for the worse a few years after Felicia’s termination. Looks like they had some medical issues…oh…”

The tone told Rossi something had tweaked one of Garcia’s heartstrings.

“Penelope?”

“I’m here…I’m here.” The extended pause let him know she’d found something of more than glancing interest. When she resumed, sympathy of the sorrowful sort permeated her voice. “Mrs. Bledsoe was ill for years. Cancer. Caring for her pretty much decimated the Bledsoes’ finances.” Another pause. Rossi imagined another heartstring plucked.

“She died. Mr. Bledsoe sold everything and moved away. That must’ve been why he left. He lost his wife and couldn’t stay in the house where she was around every corner…or _wasn’t_ around every corner…or…”

“Penelope…”

“I know. I know. But…well…that’s how I’d feel, wouldn’t you?”

Rossi sighed. “Probably. But I think I’ll let Mr. Bledsoe tell me himself…safer than making too many assumptions.”

“ _If_ he’ll talk to you, Rossi. They might not even open the door to you.” Garcia’s guilt was palpable, longing to be alleviated.

The sound of Rossi’s smile carried over, making her feel a little better. “There’s no reason for him to turn me away, Penelope. You didn’t identify yourself as FBI. And I don’t plan on standing on the doorstep and leading with the name ‘Hotchner.’” He adopted a horribly cartoonish, old-movie, German accent. “Und vee haff vays uf making people talk…”

He could see her in his mind’s eye, finally letting herself off the hook, lips and eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Well, if you need anything else, I’m here. And I’ll keep looking for Felicia, even if…well, I’ll keep looking.”

Rossi had signed off with his sincere thanks, rendered in his German impersonation.

 

The one incoming call had been from Morgan. It was short and predictable.

“Hey, man. I know something’s up with Hotch. I’m not gonna pry, Rossi, but you and I are the only ones who know…well…what we know. So, if you need me, I’m here.”

“I appreciate that, Derek. But right now I’ll take it solo.”

“Just sayin’. Stay safe, man.”

He’d driven the last few miles to Fairfax reflecting on Marty’s ‘we’ll be here,’ and Garcia’s and Morgan’s similar statements.

_So many good people standing by…just in case…_

The knowledge sent a pulse of warmth through the agent’s heart that carried him all the way to Bledsoe’s front door.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Now Rossi scanned his target house and its surroundings.

From what Garcia had said about the dwellings she’d researched in Bluefields, this was a step or several down. _Nice. Clean. But not ‘gracious, Southern living.’_

Lights were on throughout the ground floor of the two-story home. One car, an early model Datsun, occupied a modest place in the driveway. The rest of the houses were of like kind. The yards were neat, but minimal. The street was quiet and well-lit.

Rossi felt in his pocket for the photo of himself alongside the two Hotchners. He wasn’t sure if he’d brought it to show, or for the simple comfort of its company. Whether for presentation, or as a talisman, it accompanied him up the front walk and onto the small porch.

He pressed the doorbell, hearing its strident buzz overlaying the sound of approaching steps. When the door opened, he had on his best, professionally noncommittal face.

The woman giving him a questioning look was middle-aged, a bit portly, and wearing a nurse’s uniform. After Garcia’s contact, Rossi wouldn’t have blamed the caregiver for being suspicious. But her roundish face was kind and open. She raised her brows at the stranger on the steps.

Rossi took the initiative, instinctively feeling that this was a woman who not only appreciated, but expected, manners.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. I wonder if I might have a word with Mr. Ernest Bledsoe.”

The woman glanced over her shoulder, but Rossi didn’t get the impression of reluctance or wariness. She was simply gaging her patient’s willingness to have a visitor. She turned back, but before she could speak, the voice of an older man shouted from somewhere out of sight and deeper within the house.

“Who is it, Clara? And close that door. You’re lettin’ all the heat out.”

Clara’s face creased into a smile. “You heard my boss; come on in Mr….?”

“Rossi, ma’am. David Rossi.”

Once indoors with the afternoon chill relegated to the outside, the nurse gestured to take her visitor’s coat. As she hung it on an ornately carved rack by the door, she cast a curious glance at him.

“Are you a friend of Mr. Bledsoe’s, sir?”

Rossi wasn’t sure she’d be calling him ‘sir,’ if he hadn’t been laying on ‘ma’am’ so thickly.

“No, ma’am. But I believe we have a mutual acquaintance, and I’d like to ask him a few questions. If you don’t mind.”

“Who is it, Clara?!” Bledsoe’s voice was demanding, but his next words made Rossi think the man also had a sense of humor. “Clara! If that’s one of your gentleman callers, you bring him in here, young lady! Let me see if he’s sturdy enough to stand up to a femme fatale like you. Lord knows _I’m_ not!”

Clara’s deep laughter was Rossi’s first impression of Ernest Bledsoe. He was thankful it was quite unlike Garcia’s.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Marty and Jack amused each other for a time, leaving Hotch on his own to remedy his spots. But when the doctor brought the cub upstairs, they found the Leopard Chief had worn himself out. Surrounded by the supplies Rossi had given him, Hotch had drifted off to sleep. A sanitizer-saturated cloth was still entwined in his fingers, its target spot only half-faded.

Marty shook his head, sharing a smile of fond amusement with Jack.

“We have to remember your Daddy’s still sick. He gets tired easily. Sooo…” He swept the boy up, cradling him against one shoulder. “…I say we put you in your own bed to start out. I’ll clean up a little, and get your Daddy settled for the night. _Then_ , I’ll bring you in and you can wake up tomorrow morning with your tribal Chief. Sound good?”

“Yeah!” Jack nodded with enthusiasm, almost upsetting Marty’s balance.

The doctor headed down the hall. When he reached the boy’s room, his brows rose. Waiting on the bed, as though they’d known their services would be required, were Pastry Pirate Mudgie and Perfect Lady Fudge.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Ernest Bledsoe’s nature was a little more suspicious than that of his caregiver.

“Mr. Rossi, is it? Well, what’s your business with me…seeing as you aren’t going to ask my permission to court Clara, that is.”

The nurse smiled, enjoying the gentle joke. She patted her employer’s shoulder where he sat in a wheelchair before a television he’d put on mute, and left to bring in refreshments.

“Clara _is_ lovely, but I’m afraid my track record in the marriage department would make your permission to, uh, _court_ her…an unattainable goal.”

“Tom cat, eh?” Mr. Bledsoe’s eyes were shrewd as he surveyed this stranger. “I’ve known a few of your type in my time. Can’t say I approve. So…state your business, Mr. Rossi.”

“I’m looking for someone.” Bledsoe seemed to be poised, wary. Rossi had the feeling he already knew what was coming, and wondered if Garcia’s had been the only call the house had received that day…or week…and was, therefore, memorable.

“I’m looking for a lady named Felicia. I believe she worked for you a long time ago.”

The change was immediate. Bledsoe’s mind was sharp. He’d connected the dots before they’d even been drawn.

“If that twisted bastard Hotchner sent you, you can leave right now. And you can…”

Rossi held up his hands, interrupting what might have been a very colorful suggestion of an action appropriate for a cohort and comrade of the hated Hotchner.

“Mr. Bledsoe, _please_! No one sent me. I’m here on my own, hoping to find a lady who did a kindness to someone dear to me. That’s all. I swear.” Rossi waited for his host to settle himself; waited for the anger to drain.

“I work for the FBI, but I’m not here officially. But, here…” He reached into his pocket, drawing out the picture of himself and the Hotchners. “This is the friend she helped…long, long ago. When she worked for you in Bluefields.” He placed the framed photo in Bledsoe’s gnarled hand, watching the man’s eyes for signs of… _what? Emotion? Recognition?_

He didn’t have long to wait.

Bledsoe pulled down the pair of glasses that had been perched on top of his head. He peered at the photograph, frowning. The transformation was as gradual as it was powerful. Clara halted in the doorway, tea tray in hand, watching awareness dawn over her boss’ face.

“My God in heaven. Is that Aaron? Little Aaron Hotchner all grown up?” He shot Rossi a piercing look.

Rossi nodded, relieved that the man wasn’t exploding at _this_ particular Hotchner. “He’s my friend and my boss.”

“Aaron Hotchner…an FBI agent?” A slow smile rearranged the wrinkles.

“And a damn fine one, too. He’s a good man. People would lay down their lives for him.”

Bledsoe relaxed, settling back in his chair, studying the tall man in the photo. “Well. I think that’s just about the best revenge I could see happening where his son of a bitch father’s concerned. I hope it eats his soul to know that Aaron made it on his own. In spite of him…in spite of everyone…and everything.”

Rossi blinked, coming to a realization. “Mr. Bledsoe…Aaron’s father died a long time ago. You didn’t know? It would’ve been while you were still living in Bluefields.”

Bledsoe shook his head. “Once that devil moved out on his family, I never bothered to keep track of him.” His voice lowered. “I had my own problems.”

Rossi recalled Garcia’s sad reference to a long, expensive illness and understood how the neighbor’s affairs would take a distant place to his wife’s struggle.

Bledsoe’s grin grew and grew. “Well, well. Little Aaron alive and thriving…and that rat-bastard father of his dead and dust.” He looked up into Rossi’s eyes.

“This has turned out to be one fine day, Mr. Aaron’s Friend.” He shot a cheerful look at the nurse still standing in the doorway. “Clara! Bring me that bottle of Dalmore I’ve been savin’. This calls for a toast.”

Rossi’s smile began its own takeover. He had a feeling this would be a very fruitful interview. Thanks to the Hotchner’s different fates…and some very fine, very old whiskey.


	64. Young Aaron

A bemused smile remained on Bledsoe’s face as he continued to gaze at the photo.

At first, his words were soft, meant for his ears alone; stepping stones to be navigated with care, bringing memories long dormant  into the present.

“Well, well, well…” He brought the picture closer, inspecting it from different angles. “Always did take after his mother when it came to build. Kind of narrow-boned, lean. But those are Hotchner eyes. I’d know them anywhere.”

His attention drifted to the smallest figure; the boy in the foreground. His voice gained volume, demanding answers. “Is that Aaron’s boy? He has a son?”

Rossi nodded, genuine pride and love glowing in his response. “He does. Name’s Jack. He’s a fine boy.”

Bledsoe’s eyes snapped onto his guest’s. “What kind of father is he?” The sharpness in his tone warned Rossi that he was dreading the possibility that Hotch had followed in his own father’s footsteps when it came to paternal behavior. He hastened to correct any misconceptions.

“He’s a wonderful father. The job takes him away a lot, but, heart and soul, he’s devoted to that child.”

“You sure?” The old man’s eyes skewered Rossi, on the alert for any sign of dissembling, of uncertainty or discomfort.

“Absolutely. Without a doubt. Cross my heart. _All_ fathers should be as exemplary.”

“What about the mother? How’s he treat his wife?” Bledsoe’s chin raised as he considered another possibility, one that, coming from his generation, he found personally offensive. “He _did_ marry her, didn’t he?”

“He did.” Rossi’s eyes dropped. His mission was to gather information, not recount the tragedies of Hotch’s adult life. He was grateful when Clara appeared with the celebratory bottle of Dalmore and, to his amusement, _three_ small, cut-glass tumblers. Bledsoe seemed diverted by her, too. Or perhaps by the anticipation of a rare, smooth drink.

“Going to join us, my dear?” The nurse’s only answer was a prim smile. Bledsoe leaned toward Rossi, delivering a harshly whispered, false confidence. “Steals my liquor, you know.” He heaved a gusty sigh. “Not that it matters, since she stole my heart right from day one, the wicked temptress.”

Clara tried, but couldn’t stifle her laugh. It was a rich, happy sound. Rossi could understand why the old man purposely provoked it. The nurse poured out very deliberate amounts into each glass. The reproving look she gave Bledsoe when he reached to pick up the one in front of Rossi that had a smidge more than the others brought on a chuckle from his host.

“Clara, my sweet, I know it’s your duty to monitor nutrition and libations for my own good. But you have no idea how welcome the news is that this gentleman has delivered.” He gestured for the others to pick up their own drinks. Holding his out in toast-mode, his grin flashed. “To survival, my friends. Not of the fittest, but of the most deserving…Cheers.”

Rossi barely wet his lips, savoring what felt like liquid treasure; gold, amber, heat, light. All came together when he took his first full sip. He sighed, contented. But if he’d been counting on Bledsoe to forget his train of inquiry under the influence of fine whiskey, he was disappointed. After a moment of silent appreciation, the question was repeated.

“So what kind of husband is Aaron? How’s he treat his wife?”

Rossi considered for a moment, deciding he didn’t need to delve into Haley’s murder, but revealing Hotch’s circumstances could be a matter of common ground that might forge an additional bond with Bledsoe.

“Aaron’s a widower, sir. He’s a single parent.”

Bledsoe tapped a finger against his glass, subjecting his visitor to a scathingly sharp glance. Then, he went for the jugular of the matter. “I’m asking if Aaron grew up to be a wife-beater, Mr. Rossi. Did he?”

“No, sir.” Rossi leaned forward, cradling his drink in both hands, determined to steer the conversation away from Aaron as an adult, and toward Aaron as a youth. “You’re trying to find out if he’s anything like his father.” Rossi made…and held…eye contact. “I’m telling you now, Mr. Bledsoe, the only thing that monster gave Aaron was a load of pain and, according to you, the cast of his eyes. That’s it. That’s all.”

Bledsoe sipped his whiskey, nodding to himself. “Good. Better than good.”

“Which brings me to the reason for my visit, sir.”

The old man was giving intermittent glances to the photo he still held. “I know…I know…you’re looking for Felicia. But I have one more question before we run off on the tangent that interests you.” After a beat he continued, voice softer. “Is Aaron happy?”

Rossi blinked. It wasn’t what he’d expected, but he had no problem giving an honest answer.

“Sometimes. But he’s been hurt. You know that, if you knew his father.” He felt his eyes moisten, whether from the potent alcohol, or sympathy for Hotch’s damage, he wasn’t sure. “All I want to do…all I’m hoping to accomplish here…is to help him find some peace and maybe a little healing on the side. I _do_ want to find Felicia, but anything you can tell me about Aaron’s childhood might help me to help him. And please believe me: this man deserves to be helped. He’s more than earned it.”

Bledsoe took a deep breath. “Alright. Aaron as a boy…”

Clara made a discreet exit.

Rossi leaned forward, intent on absorbing every word, every nuance in the telling.

 

xxxxxxxxxx

 

“Little Aaron Hotchner…

“Made me think of a spider the first time I saw him. Pale, skinny, little thing. All arms and legs and bony joints. ‘Course, I only saw him from a distance, scuttling across the lawn. Thought he was looking for something he’d lost, like a puppy or a kitten, the way he was casting around, trying to fit himself into any small space he could find.

“Tell you the truth, I was too busy with my own life to give him much thought at first. We knew he was a neighbor boy, but no one saw much of the Hotchners. I’d catch glimpses of Aaron’s mother now and then, but she didn’t make any effort to connect with other families on the street.

“And that sick bastard, Aaron’s father, didn’t socialize. He’d give a big grin-and-wave if you called out a greeting, but that was the extent of it.

“Guess he wanted to keep people out, so they wouldn’t see what went on inside his walls.”

Bledsoe shook his head, eyes unfocused; lost in the past. Rossi stayed quiet and still. He didn’t want any interruption or distraction to interfere with the pure line of a story that he felt lived inside this man with a power undiminished by the passage of time.

“My bride, my Doreen, needed help keeping that big house running the way she wanted. She wasn’t one of your steel magnolias. Her strength was in her compassion, her spirit, her…” Bledsoe’s voice choked, but was quick to recover. “… _love_ was her strength.” He gave a wry, mirthless chuckle.

“But love doesn’t clean the floors or weed the garden. So we found Felicia. Mind you, Doreen preferred to do for herself, but I insisted she have someone in once a week to help.

“Felicia was recommended by one of the other neighbor ladies. She was honest, hard-working, but most of all she had a heart big enough to match my Doreen’s.” Rossi watched a bittersweet smile settle over the elderly face.

“Felicia took over doing the weekly laundry, and she’d lend a hand with anything else my wife needed. When she found a stray cat or two wandering around the building where the washing machine was, she gave them her own lunch. Then she started bringing scraps from home. Doreen noticed. Both those ladies had soft spots for strays. Started combining their efforts.

“I warned them that they’d draw every hungry animal in the area, but they just laughed at me behind my back the way ladies do to their men sometimes…” Bledsoe drifted for a moment. Rossi waited.

“Anyway, came a time when Felicia started making excuses to keep Doreen away. Said she’d handle the laundry and the strays herself. We noticed a few things go missing…towels, blankets, a pillow. Knew Felicia was no thief. We made it a game to guess what she was doin’. Figured she had a sick animal or a birthing cat out there.” The old man shrugged. “Would’ve helped her if we’d known it was the Hotchner boy….But we didn’t.”

“Then, one day everything hit the fan. Felicia came out of that laundry building like a warrior headed into battle. She went out the gate, down the street. Next thing we hear is her shoutin’. And that lady had some pair of lungs. Could hear her all up and down the street and probably a block over on either side.

“I went out to the sidewalk and saw her light into Mr. Hotchner, accusin’ him of abusing his boy and being a monster. Shock kept her safe. That coward shrank into himself. His secret was out. He turned tail and hid inside his house.

“Felicia came back steamin’, she was so angry. She told us not to go out to the laundry just yet. Said we’d scare the boy out there…little Aaron. Said he only had but one really safe place and that was it. And if we frightened him off, he’d have nowhere and nothin’.

Bledsoe rubbed his forehead. “Should’ve gone out there. Should’ve gotten Felicia out, too. But…” He waved one hand; a gesture of futility and regret. “…we didn’t. Police showed up. Back in that day and age, a black woman didn’t stand a chance against a white man in a situation like that. And we were about to learn _no one_ stood a chance against the likes of Hotchner. Man had his fingers in more pies than Betty Crocker.”

The old man took a healthy gulp of his whiskey, wincing at its fire. “They took Felicia away. We went to bat for her, but Hotchner pulled every string and every trick in his arsenal. What he did was illegal, but the town was small, and it was his. He had the bank and the police under his thumb, just to name two institutions that would roll over and play dead for him.

“Fact is, the son of a bitch was so rich, and so crazy no one wanted to tangle with him. Had this obsessive need to be right…to win at everything.” Bledsoe paused, thinking.

“No, it was more than that. Hotchner didn’t just want to win. He wanted everyone else to _lose_. So he could gloat. Sick, twisted…

“Well, we did what we could. Hotchner set it up so if Felicia was let go, she’d have to leave town. Turned out he could swing some weight with the bank and get our mortgage overturned. We had everything sunk into that house and land. He threatened to make us penniless and homeless. My Doreen wasn’t strong, her heart had trouble sometimes. I couldn’t risk putting her under any more strain.

“We were allowed to make things look official by paying Felicia severance. But Hotchner controlled even that…even what we did with our own money. Bank wouldn’t let us take out but fifty dollars.

“We gave her all the cash we had on hand; our emergency money. It was better than nothing, but, well…it was the best we could do. We were trapped in Bluefields. At least Felicia was gettin’ out.

“And Aaron. Poor Aaron. All this took place in the space of a few hours. We scraped together what we could, and they drove Felicia out of town; escorted her out like a banished undesirable. By the time we went out to the laundry building, the boy was gone. We saw drops of blood on the floor and a makeshift bed that Felicia had made for him from our towels and blankets. But there was no sign of the child.

“We thought he’d be back. If it was his best, most safe place to escape that monster, he’d be back. And we took Felicia at her word. We thought it might be best to leave him alone for a while. So we put out some extra bedding, and we left hampers of food that wouldn’t spoil or fall to any of the stray animals. And we hoped it’d help. And that his father’d never find out.

Rossi jumped when Bledsoe brought his fist down, slamming it against the armrest of his wheelchair. “I wish I’d lain in wait for that boy! I wish I’d gone looking for him! But, like I said, we took Felicia’s advice. And we were in shock ourselves, finding out what kind of hold Hotchner had over the town.

“I went back to work. Doreen was fragile, she kept to herself for a bit. She didn’t need to go out to the laundry building but once a week. The day came when she decided to do a load. She went out and…” Bledsoe’s voice choked. Rossi didn’t know if it was a sound of anger or shame or grief.

“That bastard Hotchner had slipped in without us seein’. He’d padlocked the place down. When Doreen told me, I took some bolt-cutters to it, but…” He shook his head, staring at the photo still in his hands.

“That poor little boy probably came back, scared as hell…his whole world falling apart with his Daddy after him more than ever…with Felicia, the one person who helped him, gone…and he must’ve thought we all locked him out. That now no one, absolutely no one wanted him or would offer him the care they’d give even a stray cat.”

Bledsoe rubbed his worn thumb over Hotch’s image. “Aaron. Little, little Aaron…”

After a moment, he passed the picture back to his visitor. Rossi saw the glint of tears in the old man’s eyes.

“When you see your friend, Mr. Rossi, you tell him Mr. Bledsoe says he’s sorry. You do that for an old man. You tell him if I’d found him, I would’ve done my best to help him back then.”

Rossi accepted the photo. He still had questions. There was more he needed to know. But one thing was certain.

When he got home, no matter if Aaron was asleep, or de-spotting, or playing with his son…Rossi was going to scoop him up and hug him so tightly that even that small, hurt boy from which he’d grown would feel it. Decades in the past…he’d feel it.


	65. Adolescent Aaron

Rossi pocketed the photo, giving Bledsoe a moment to gather himself.

They sipped their whiskey in silence. He was aware when Clara peeked into the room, checking on her charge, making sure he didn’t get too upset during this exchange with a stranger. When it felt right, Rossi probed for more.

“What happened after that? Aaron couldn’t have just disappeared entirely. He still lived in the neighborhood.”

“Oh, he was still around. But the boy was a ghost.” Bledsoe sighed. “Like I said, I was away at work for the most part, but Doreen kept an eye out for the child, hoping he’d show up and let her help him…feed him, at least.

“But he was like a wild animal. Shy. Scared. Wouldn’t let anyone get close. Doreen even risked the wrath of Hotchner by going to the one elementary school in the area and asking after little Aaron. Well…” The old man’s face showed a combination of disgust and disbelief, even so many years after the fact. “…School officials weren’t immune to Hotchner’s hold either. They told her they couldn’t give out any information on a child that wasn’t hers. Of course they were right, but she got the feelin’ they were as scared of dealing with that madman as everyone else.

“Next time the Hotchners came to the forefront was a few years down the road.” The old man stared into the depths of his drink, swirling the golden liquid.

“It was usually real quiet after sundown. Bluefields wasn’t the sort of place for night life. One summer night, Doreen and I were sleepin’ with the windows open…” He looked up at Rossi, eyes misty. “Remember when times were like that? When windows and doors could stay wide open and all that entered was the breeze and the moonlight? I miss that…”

Rossi began to wonder if the Dalmore was having an effect, but his host pulled himself back from the wistful nostalgia that had claimed him.

“Anyway, one night we heard slammin’ doors and a car engine start up. Somehow had a feelin’ any disturbance would have somethin’ to do with the Hotchners. I went to the window and saw the bastard drivin’ off. Waited, but didn’t hear or see anything else.

“Have to say, Mr. Rossi, we were kind of nervous about it. The Hotchner house always had the drapes drawn, the windows covered.” He shook his head. “That little boy grew up in darkness. Literally. And by the by…there was another little one by then. Aaron had a brother, but we saw as little of him as any of them.

“Well, Doreen and I got to talkin’ and we both wouldn’t’ve put it past Hotchner to kill his whole family and take off. I put on my robe and walked down to the house. There wasn’t but one light on inside. I knocked, all the time pictures runnin’ through my mind like you see on the news.” He glanced up at the FBI agent he knew must have seen the reality of what he meant; the crime scenes, the bodies. Rossi nodded, but stayed silent.

“So…I knocked and I called out, askin’ if everyone was okay. There wasn’t any answer, but the light switched off. We didn’t have timers or any of that automatic stuff back then. So I knew there was someone inside. Someone who didn’t want company. I went home. Back to bed.

“But next morning things were different. Before I headed off to work, I saw the drapes open. Didn’t even realize ‘til it happened that it was the first time that house had opened itself to daylight. When I got home that evening, Doreen said she’d kept watch. Saw Mrs. Hotchner carrying the youngest and ushering lanky, young Aaron along. Even from a distance, Doreen could see the boy was a mess. Bruised. Bloody. Scraped. But he was smilin’. Kind of shocky in the eyes…but smilin’.

Bledsoe took a deep breath and an even deeper swallow of his drink.

“My best guess is young Aaron snapped. Something happened that sent him over the edge and all those years of abuse came together inside him…came to a boil. Can’t imagine the terror and pain that would’ve made that skinny kid…I think he was in his early teens by then…go up against that brute. And win.”

What sounded almost like a sob or maybe a cough escaped Bledsoe. “Young Aaron Hotchner might’ve become a murderer that night, if he’d been any bigger, any stronger. Or he might’ve become a corpse, if he’d been any less determined.”

Rossi looked down, sipping his drink. He remembered the night Hotch had told him and Morgan about attacking his father when the man raised a hand against his little brother Sean for the first time. It had driven the monster from the house. And Hotch had wondered if he’d only succeeded because his father had already been diagnosed with lung cancer, and might have been weakened by the disease.

Bledsoe had just confirmed one of the few things Rossi knew. He listened carefully as the narrative resumed.

“Well, things changed a little, but not much. The drapes opened, but the family still kept to themselves. One day a moving van pulled up. I’m guessing that was Hotchner gettin’ his belongings. But Aaron, young Aaron…he was the casualty. He was the collateral damage.” Bledsoe sighed. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back.

Rossi frowned, but decided keeping quiet was the best strategy. Eventually, the old man roused himself, looking at his guest.

“That boy was a wraith. He went through life like a shadow. Dead-eyed. Grew into a right handsome, young man if you cared to listen to all the local girls…” He winked. “…and some of the grown women, too. But something was wrong with him. He couldn’t engage, couldn’t recover from his childhood, I guess. It got so he made the whole town uncomfortable. You’d see him and you’d know…you’d say to yourself…‘I let this happen. I stood by and did nothing.’

“Boy was a walkin’ condemnation of every single person who’d knuckled under to Hotchner. And the weird thing is…I never heard anything more from that monster. He just faded away like a bad dream…” The sharp eyes met Rossi’s again. “Might that be when the bastard died?”

Rossi nodded. “Heart attack. A few months after the altercation with Aaron.” Bledsoe’s belly laugh startled him.

“Heart attack? That sick, twisted thing didn’t have a heart.” He rocked back and forth, chuckling to himself. “That’s rich…that’s rich. Couldn’t’ve happened to a more deserving person. But, I guess that explains Hotchner’s wife having enough money to send the boy away.”

“Away?” Rossi knew Hotch had been sent to a boarding school. He’d termed himself a ‘screw-up,’ but Dave had never been able to reconcile the man he knew with that derogatory term.

Bledsoe nodded, sighing. “Boy just disappeared. Rumor was they sent him off somewhere. But by then my Doreen, my beautiful bride, my wife, turned out to have cancer.” His eyes filled. “Never saw young Aaron again. Went through hell losing my wife, so didn’t pursue the matter. Still…” He sipped the last of his drink. “…thought about him from time to time. Little Aaron Hotchner…poor, little kid…no one expected him to come out right in the end…too much damage…”

His host’s voice faded out. Rossi waited, but it seemed the tale of Bluefields and the man who’d bullied the town, was over. Still, he had one more question.

“Mr. Bledsoe, what about Felicia? Did you ever hear anything about her? From anyone?”

The old man shook his head. “No. Sorry. No.” He pulled himself a little straighter, giving his now empty glass a longing look. “Last we saw of Felicia was her lookin’ back at us from the rear seat of a squad car, headed out of town. But at least she got out. At least she got free.”

The sad eyes looked at Rossi out of a nest of wrinkles set in mournful lines.

“Fact that you’re here…lookin’ for her…askin’ what you have…that tells me Aaron _still_ isn’t free. He might have left, but that time, and that place, and that devil who sired him, _still_ have their hold on him. If you’re really his friend…if you _really_ care about him…you do whatever you have to, to free that boy.

“Don’t let him go to his grave with his father’s claws still in him.”

 


	66. Monsters Within

Rossi shivered, an involuntary reaction to Bledsoe’s insistence he free the boy who still huddled, hurt and stunned, somewhere deep in Hotch’s soul.

Dave wanted to sense that the missing things, the empty holes in his friend had been repaired. There was no baseline joy in the man. He took pleasure in certain things…his son, a job well-done…but Rossi didn’t feel the existence of that deep well-spring of elated delight, in and of itself, that he believed was the birthright of every living creature. It wasn’t the kind of thing that was ever-present, at the forefront in every stage of life, but most people had it.

It meant the difference between existing and truly living.

It was what Aaron lacked.

It killed Rossi to think that essential quality might be irretrievably lost. Not just buried beneath pain and shock, but gone…nonexistent. He actually had been encouraged by Hotch’s failure to remember Felicia. It gave him hope that, as simplistic as it sounded, the man might have just forgotten how to be happy. And maybe, if Rossi could dig him out of a hiding place he wasn’t even aware he occupied, that capacity for joy might be found; crushed and flattened, but still viable; still capable of being resuscitated.

He looked up to find Bledsoe’s hooded eyes watching him. Rossi returned the stare, knowing he was being judged. The old man wasn’t sure this stranger, Aaron’s purported friend, believed that the dead father could reach that far.

The longest distance between two points was time. How could a dead man wield such power?

But Rossi believed.

Knowing Hotch, and loving Hotch…Rossi believed.

 

xxxxxx

 

Having tucked Jack into bed between two, large, warm, canine bodies; having assured him that he’d be beside Daddy come morning, Marty entered Hotch’s room.

His original intention had been to tidy away the detritus of little boy’s toys and de-spotting supplies, and to do a quick once-over to see how his patient was progressing on the recovery front. But seeing Hotch asleep, sanitizer-soaked cloth in hand, spot half-erased, the doctor shook his head, smiling. There was something innocent and vulnerable about the man that defied his grim façade and even grimmer occupation.

_And maybe that’s what draws out the father in Dave…and a little bit in me, too._

The littlest Hotchner was looking forward to waking up with Daddy. Marty decided to give the bigger Hotchner something nice to wake up to as well. He disengaged the cloth from Hotch’s limp fingers. Settling in for what might be a time-consuming task, he dotted some fresh sanitizer gel on several of the deep red, Sharpie spots and went to work. He’d planned to wait up for Rossi anyway.

_Might as well make myself useful._

With the gentlest touch he could muster that would still prove effective, Marty continued the un-leoparding of Aaron, hoping application of the chilly gel wouldn’t wake him.

 

xxxxxx

 

Rossi had mixed feelings about his encounter with Ernest Bledsoe.

He’d been on the hunt for information. He’d found plenty; just not the kind he’d hoped for. The troubling look into Hotch’s formative years hadn’t turned up any definitive clues in the search for Felicia.

He thanked  Bledsoe for his time and candor, promising again that he’d tender his apologies and best wishes to Aaron. On the point of leaving, one more possible lead regarding Felicia occurred to Rossi.

“Sir, do you recall the date when all that happened? When they ran Felicia out of town?”

“Of course I do. Not easy to forget a thing like that.” The old man’s voice was certain, as hard as concrete. “Felicia always came on a Friday. It was the day after Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving of 1975.”

“Aaron would have been around seven.”

“Sounds about right. Never did see anything like a child’s birthday celebration at the Hotchner’s though, so couldn’t say for sure.”

Rossi nodded, thanked Bledsoe again for the fine whiskey and let Clara see him out. At the door she handed him his coat. Her smile was unsure.

“I didn’t listen in, Mr. Rossi. But if news of a man’s death could make Mr. Bledsoe happier than I’ve seen him in a month o’ Sundays, he must’ve been one hard character. Evil.”

“He was.”

“Then I believe the good Lord saw to it that he ended up where he belongs.”

“I hope so. G’night, Clara.”

Rossi stepped out into the twilight, thinking of the questionable existence of Heaven and Hell. He sighed. The only place he could be sure Hotchner Sr. still existed was deep inside Aaron.

It would be a pity if that turned out to be Hell.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was puzzled.

He knew he was dreaming. He could feel it. But he also felt safe, which was strange for him. He was relieved that there was no mist, no mirrors, no disembodied hands grasping at him, no accusations flying about from ghosts of past and future.

But something _was_ flying. And it was landing on his skin in cold, wet splotches.

He raised his head, looking around for whatever was… _tormenting?...no, not painful…toying?..._ Yes, that’s what it felt like: someone toying with him; teasing him, but without evil intent.

Then he saw it…saw _them_ …

He was in an enclosure formed entirely of berry canes. Twining and looping, they wove themselves into a living cave. They were raspberry canes. And he was under attack.

The berries were detaching themselves from the vines, soaring through the air, landing on his skin with soft, wet, cold splashes. No matter how he twisted and turned, there was no escape.

What was happening wasn’t scary, but he kept thinking about how he’d explain the berry stains to his team. Then a scary thought _did_ hit him.

His face.

He could hide the markings on his body by virtue of his armor of choice…a suit, complete with pristine dress shirt and perfectly knotted tie. But his face…he couldn’t hide that unless he entered the Bureau wearing a ski mask.

Somehow he didn’t think he’d get very far, if he did that.

No sooner had he realized that his face was his most vulnerable target for berry bombardment, than he saw a particularly large, densely black, glossy berry…much more evil-looking than your normal raspberry…break from its stem and plummet, taking aim directly at the tip of his nose, trailing long filaments of berry juice that he just _knew_ would leave stains of their own.

The image of a little button-black nose and streamlined whiskers…of ill-concealed giggles in the conference room…of the female team members cooing about how cute it was, and then planting little kisses on its tip…set in motion waves of panicked humiliation, breaking him from dream-paralysis.

Hotch raised his hands to shield his nose from the thing that now looked like a cross between a berry and Godzilla, and…

 

“Aaron, Aaron. It’s alright, Aaron. Just a dream. It’s alright.”

He opened his eyes to see Marty leaning over him, holding his wrists still, talking in the calm tones one would use to gentle a startled animal.

“Atta boy. You’re safe, Aaron. Everything’s okay.”

Hotch made a conscious effort to relax. But he couldn’t help glancing about; just to make sure Black Berry-zilla hadn’t somehow followed him.

There was a bad moment when he saw the jelly-like splotches chilling his stomach, but he recognized the hand sanitizer gel almost immediately. With a small sigh, he let his head fall back on the pillow, un-tensing enough so the doctor felt he could release his wrists.

Marty chuckled. For the briefest of moments Hotch’s stomach tightened. It was an echo of the amusement which his berry-blackened nose would have engendered around the conference table.

“I’m sorry, Aaron. Didn’t mean to wake you. Just thought I could make a little headway on your, uh, leopard pelt. Maybe save you some time and effort.”

Hotch closed his eyes, feeling his respiration returning to normal. He felt Marty resume massaging gel into his Sharpie spots, not talking; letting Aaron have his space.

“Where’s Jack?”

“I put him to bed. Promised him he’d wake up next to you, though.” The gentle cleansing continued. “I wanted to check you over and clean you up a little before I transferred him from his bed to yours.”

“Where’s Dave?”

The doctor cleared his throat. “He went out for a while.”

Hotch frowned. His eyes opened. “What’s going on, Marty?”

There was a slight hesitation in the circular movement of the cloth against Hotch’s skin. “What makes you such a suspicious man all of a sudden, Aaron? One would think you were…I dunno… _profiling_ when you’re supposed to be taking a break from all that.”

“That’s three ‘tells,’ Dr. Palmer. Where’s Dave?”

It was Marty’s turn to frown. “What’re ‘tells?’ And Dave’ll be back in a little while.”

“That’s four.”

The doctor sighed, letting his hand rest on Hotch’s stomach. “Four?”

“Uh-huh. One: you cleared your throat before answering when you didn’t need to.” He pointed his chin toward the hand holding the cleaning cloth. “Two: you froze for a second. Three and four: you evaded giving a direct answer.” A glint daggered its way out from Hotch’s narrowed eyes, threatening to reach full glarehood. “Where’s Dave?”

Marty sighed, wiping at the spots again. “Damn profiler…He went to look into your past a bit.”

“ _What_?!”

“All I know is someone who used to live in your hometown now lives in Fairfax. Dave drove over to ask a few questions. Thought it might help in finding Felicia.”

Hotch laid back, eyes focused inward. The doctor noted his respiration had increased beyond the rate it had been when he’d emerged from whatever he’d been dreaming. After a moment’s observation, Marty’s lips compressed.

_He might be right about having PTSD. Even with his permission to search, he’s scared._

When he resumed rubbing Aaron’s stomach, it was more to calm than to de-spot.

“Aaron, what’s frightening you? What are you scared of?”

“Everything,” came the small-voiced reply.

“Tell me, son. Take a deep breath…and tell me.”


	67. Facing Fear

Hotch cooperated fifty percent.

He took a deep breath, but he didn’t say anything. Marty didn’t either. He knew pushing wouldn’t do any good. He also knew Hotch might need time to sort through the nameless panic that assaulted him at mention of his childhood. He wiped off the sanitizer gel and rested a warm, undemanding hand against the stomach that he thought was probably twisting itself into nervous knots.

After a few minutes of watching his patient’s eyes dart, and seeing no decrease in the rapid respiration, the doctor spoke in a voice so soft, it could be ignored if Hotch chose to do so.

“Son, there’s nothing and no one who can hurt you here. In fact, you’re surrounded by those who’ll actively keep you from harm. You’re safe, Aaron. Safe. There’s no shame and no guilt. And, if you want, I’ll keep whatever you say in strictest confidence. Dave and I _do_ discuss you, but at any time, with any topic, you can invoke doctor-patient privilege.”

Hotch squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, biting his lower lip. When he looked at Marty again, he was clearly making an effort to communicate, but equally clearly, didn’t understand his own inability to do so.

“I just feel…I don’t know…I…I don’t know where to begin…It’s just…I don’t know…”

Marty patted the stomach under his hand, keeping up the gentle motion until Hotch took another, deeper breath.

“This is panic, Aaron. Your body’s reacting. Your mind doesn’t understand why. The signals it’s sending come from levels lower than conscious thought. Maybe from the absolute lowest strata of your subconscious.” A shudder passed through the body beneath his touch.

“Maybe you should try _not_ fighting it. Let it have you, Aaron. Let go. It’s okay. This isn’t weakness. This is just a method of coping. Let go, son. Let it take you…”

Hotch felt divided. It flashed through his mind that Reid would have used a word like ‘multidimensional.’ As his heart raced, his brain acknowledged the futility of fighting. All it was doing was creating emotional and mental gridlock. He took Marty’s advice and abandoned himself. He moved into his panic.

 

xxxxxx

 

Rossi sat in his luxuriously appointed BMW for several silent minutes.

Much of what Bledsoe had said chilled him. He let the engine run, turning on the heat even though he realized the cold he felt had nothing to do with ambient temperature. After a few minutes, he picked up his phone and punched in Garcia’s speed dial number.

“Hi, Rossi.” He could tell she’d been hovering, waiting to find out if her ill-advised phone call to the Bledsoe household had indeed resulted in irreparable damage and insurmountable obstacles.

“Garcia, I know it’s getting late, but I wanted to ask one more thing. Tomorrow can you look into another facet of the Felicia matter?”

“Oh…uh…of course, sir! So…so…he talked to you? He didn’t, you know…just throw you out when he found out you knew Hotch?”

Rossi’s chuckle soothed away her apparently self-renewing, residual guilt. “No, actually he invited me in for a drink. And he turned out to be entirely pro-Hotch. Even asked to be remembered to him kindly.”

“Ohhh…Oh, sir…that is _so_ good to hear.” Freed from her personal angst, Garcia was eager to know about any more fruitful trail she could trace than the one that had dead-ended in decades old bank records. “So…what next? What’d you find out?”

“Well…” Rossi rubbed a hand over his face, the emotion he’d kept under wraps during Bledsoe’s recounting of Hotch’s home life was beginning to add up to fatigue. “See if you can find any police archives from Bluefields. Specifically, anything mentioning the names Felicia, or Bledsoe, or Hotchner around Thanksgiving in 1975. Can you do that?”

Her hesitation gave Rossi a sinking feeling even before Garcia spoke.

“Sir? I, uh, I don’t think really small towns keep police records online…not from that long ago anyway. They would’ve had to input them, same as the banks, but police aren’t as, well, _obsessive_ about that kind of thing. Not in small towns, anyway.” Her voice brightened, offering a bone. “But I’ll turn over every stone and poke into every dark corner they have…Oh! And…I can _call_ them…” For a moment her fervor to help allowed her to overlook her last foray into telecommunications. “Or…or…maybe I shouldn’t do that, though.  I, uh…”

Rossi stepped in, sensing the tech analyst might spin herself into a small, glittery vortex with her inner conflict stemming from her desire to excel colliding with her recent phone _faux pas_.

“Penelope! It’s alright. Just check what you can. If there’s nothing online, then go ahead and call them. Remember this _isn’t_ official FBI business, so don’t identify yourself as such, but ask if they keep hard copy archives going back into the 70s. Got it?”

“Yessir! Absolutely. I’ll get right on it…”

“Garcia!” He could almost hear whatever feathered, spangled creation that was her pen _du jour_ pausing over the disconnect button, about to cut him off in her zeal to get started.

“Yessir?”

“Wait until tomorrow. They’re a _very_ small police department. Whoever’s on duty right now is at the bottom of the ladder, pulling the night shift. You’ll have better luck…get a more informative response…if you wait until morning.”

“Oh…okay…sure…got it.”

He gave a weary sigh. “Thanks, Garcia. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Sir? I don’t mean to pry, but…well…yes, I guess I _do_ mean to pry.” She took a breath and hurried forward. “Is what we’re doing going to help Hotch?”

“Help him?”

“Is Felicia a good person…or someone who needs to be held accountable for…well…for whatever hurt him way back then?”

Rossi forgot feeling tired. He pulled himself straighter. “Why do you think something hurt Hotch?”

“I just do.” Her voice grew smaller. “I think maybe we all do.”

Rossi shook his head. _Of course they all think it. Morgan knows, and the others are three extraordinarily adept profilers…and one woman with a heart whose empathy would embrace the entire world, if it could._

“It’s all kind of a muddle right now, Penelope. But Felicia was someone who loved Hotch and did her best to let him know when he was a child.”

“Oh…” He could hear her wavering on the edge of tears. “Then I’ll find her, sir. I will. I’ll find her.”

“I’d settle for a last name at this point. Good night, Garcia…and thanks.”

 

xxxxxx

 

Hotch found out that giving in to nameless, formless panic…hurt.

The only way he could think to do as Marty suggested, to let himself go, was to close his eyes and explore what he was feeling. It was a bit like having a bruise and pressing against it to see how much it hurt. An odd thing to do, but somehow irresistible. Only once he began to let himself wallow in it, the panic took on a life of its own.

He had no control.

It sucked him down and wouldn’t let him get free until it was done with him…until it ran its course.

Marty watched his patient close his eyes and submit with a totality that surprised him.

It was one of the bravest things he’d ever witnessed. _And after Viet Nam and all the disasters and tragedies I’ve seen…that’s saying something._

Hotch rolled onto his side, curling in on himself, pulling a pillow down so he had something to hold onto…something to hug and in which to bury his face.

The doctor placed one hand on Hotch’s waist, one on his shoulder. He felt shudders pass through the body that seemed to be wracked by sobs, but, eerily, didn’t make a sound. The pillow hid Hotch’s expression, but not the muscle spasms that, again, might have denoted crying except for the man’s utter silence.

It went on and on until Marty became concerned. He had no idea how long such a reaction should last to, not release…was that even possible?...rather, to pay homage to a lifetime of secret agony.

In the end, he gave in and interrupted. He pulled Hotch, pillow and all, to himself and rocked him. In a moment of either desperation or inspiration, he began to hum the lullaby Rossi had used. It took time. But slowly…so painfully slowly…the body in his grip traded shuddering for shivers, and the muscles loosened marginally to the tension of piano wire instead of the rock hard solidity of steel.

When Hotch finally took a deep, tattered breath and let his grip on the pillow ease, Marty realized he’d been breathing in tiny, shallow sips as well. He moved Hotch back, laying him down, but maintaining contact; a hand moving over his chest, kneading the muscles that still quivered.

In a moment of sympathetic respect, when Hotch opened his eyes the doctor closed his own, letting his patient have a moment of privacy without having to be alone. He was relieved when, panting slightly, Hotch spoke.

“Wow.”

Marty’s lids lifted, meeting Aaron’s dark, damp gaze. “Feel better?”

“Dunno.”

“Can you talk about it now?”

Hotch’s breathing slowed…a good, if gradual, sign. “I still don’t know where to start. I still feel like I’m running up against a cardboard wall if I think about…back then.”

“Then don’t go there…yet.” He poured a glass of water, handing it to his patient. “Maybe we can work backwards.” He gave Hotch some space and a chance to drink.

“Let’s go slow. Aaron, what are you scared of now, as a grown man?”

A gut-deep breath and then, finally an answer.

“I’m scared of screwing everything up. Of doing everything wrong. Of being alone. Of being all that Jack has. Of not doing all that I’m supposed to do. Of not being enough. Of making the wrong choices and failing my son. Of making the wrong decisions and failing my team. Of being the reason someone gets hurt…or killed. Of not being fast enough, or smart enough, or good enough.

“I’m scared I’m gonna die without getting a chance to know what it’s like to live the way real people do.”

Hotch paused. Marty frowned, troubled most by the last statement. “‘Real’ people? What does that mean to you?” Seeing Aaron shiver, the doctor had to remind himself that this was still a sick man; a man whose body needed help as much as his psyche. While Hotch considered the question, Marty pulled the covers up higher, tucking them in.

“Real people know how to make the important things in life work, because they’ve sort of inherited the knowledge; they’ve been raised knowing how to do things right.” Sad eyes looked up at Marty. “I’ve never been able to make being part of a family work. Not with my parents; not with my wife…How am I supposed to know what to do for Jack?”

Tears gathered, shimmering without spilling.

“I know there’s something wrong with me. It doesn’t matter whose fault it is, or where it came from. What matters is I don’t know how to be any other way.

“I think the only thing I’m _really_ good at is being…damaged.” He gave a mirthless, half-smile. “At my best, I’m broken. I don’t want that for Jack. I’m the only example he has. And I’m broken…can’t be fixed. I know it. I’ve always known it. It’s intrinsic. I don’t even know when I’m showing it.

“The only thing I can teach my son is how to be broken, too. That’s what scares me.”

Hearing the desolation in Aaron’s voice, the intimation that he tried to hide what he considered his ‘brokenness’ all the time…Marty was the one who shivered.


	68. Warming Hotch's Heart

By the time Rossi got home, things had settled down…or at least had been put on hold for the night.

He wasn’t surprised as he approached to see some lights on in the ground floor. He’d rather expected Marty to wait up, curious to know how Rossi’s foray into Hotch’s past had transpired. But when he entered with a mock-cheery “I’m home, honey!,” expecting a humorous, sharp retort, he found the doctor slumped before the fire, lost in contemplation and scotch.

Marty pulled his thoughts away from the distraction of ever-changing flames, giving Rossi a welcoming, but subdued smile. “Dave. You’re back. How’d it go?”

Rossi hesitated within the doorway of the den, absorbing his friend’s mood before speaking. “I talked to Bledsoe. Learned some disturbing things about our young friend upstairs.”

The doctor’s brows rose. “Me, too.”

Rossi shed his coat and started to pour himself a drink, but stopped. He still held the smooth taste of Bledsoe’s Dalmore whiskey in his imagination and on his palette. He decided to enjoy it for a little while longer before erasing the sensation with a lesser one. He sighed. _I’ll probably have to go out and find myself a bottle now. Everything else will pale in comparison. Alas…the curse of acquiring finer tastes…and having the wherewithal to indulge them…_

Placing the crystal stopper back in the decanter, he joined Marty before the fire. The two men read similar expressions on each other’s faces. After a moment, the doctor broke the silence.

“You go first. I’m not sure if Aaron wants to keep our session in the realm of confidentiality or not, so I need to err on the side of caution and think on it for a while. So the floor’s all yours.”

“Alright.” Rossi leaned forward, watching the flames…and wishing he could be sure Aaron’s father was roasting in even hotter ones for all eternity. “Mr. Bledsoe painted me a picture that makes me wonder if we should be grateful for Aaron’s repressed memories.”

Marty closed his eyes for a few beats, feeling an echo of the pain he’d just seen Hotch endure. “That bad?”

“By the look on your face, Marty, I could probably ask you the same thing about _your_ evening with Aaron.”

The doctor sipped his drink. Rossi, deciding he could live with overwriting the taste of Dalmore after all, rose and poured himself a double. Then he related every detail he’d been told about a little boy’s heart and spirit being broken before they’d even had a chance to develop. He watched Marty’s expression range from horror to rage to a reflection of what Rossi felt inside on Hotch’s behalf: cold, blank shock.

When Rossi had finished, the two friends stared into the fire in silence. Minutes passed. After nearly ten of them, Marty sighed.

“I’m glad I didn’t push him about his childhood. The effects from it, the echoes of it, that even now touch him as an adult, were bad enough. If they’re that powerful, distanced by time, I hate to think what he felt when all that cruelty was happening, was immediate…was the sum total of his world.”

Rossi glanced at the doctor. He wanted to know what had passed between him and Hotch in his absence, but he would never press Marty to betray a confidence. And if Aaron had expressed uncertainty about letting anyone else in on it, even his best friend…his mentor…his pseudo-father, then it had to be for one of two reasons. Either the information itself was horrendous beyond comprehension, or Hotch hadn’t been able to articulate it. It was still locked inside him; still part and parcel of that very special, customized hell created by Hotchner Sr. as his legacy to his eldest son.

So Rossi didn’t pursue the specifics.

“What’s he doing now?”

“Resting. I said I’d give him some time on his own and then I’d bring Jack in so they can wake up together.” Marty’s lips traced a grim smile. “I hope he figures out that his own son’s love is all the validation he needs to be proud of the job he’s doing raising him.”

Rossi nodded. He didn’t need to be told that one of Hotch’s greatest concerns was navigating the tricky waters of parenthood. It was something he kept an eye on, lending support wherever and whenever required. It sounded as though some of that support might be called for right now.

He threw back the rest of his drink and rose.

“I think I’ll look in on him. Just for a minute. And only if he seems to want company.”

 

xxxxxx

 

Rossi poked his head around the corner of Hotch’s bedroom door and surveyed the scene, hoping to draw clues as to whether or not the man was open to a visit.

The bedside lamp was off, but the drapes were open. No street or landscape lighting reached this side of the mansion. The only illumination came from the hallway, and a perfect crescent moon hanging outside the window. Once his eyes had adjusted, Rossi could see Hotch lying on his side, back to the door. He was on the point of leaving, thinking he might be asleep, when a mournful, little sniff sounded.

“Aaron?” He worked to make his voice unobtrusive; enough above a whisper to be heard, but soft enough to send the message that answering was optional.

Hotch’s head raised, looking over his shoulder at Rossi’s silhouette framed in the doorway. Encouraged, Rossi came a few steps closer. Then a few more. He sat on the edge of the bed, but left the lamp off, sensing that Hotch had chosen to be in darkness.

_When all else fails, it’s the one hiding place you can count on._

It reminded Rossi of being a child himself; of being told by an older cousin that if he closed his eyes, no one could see him. Now, he could imagine Hotch taking refuge in the lack of light in much the same, comfortably illogical way.

When Hotch laid his head back down, body still turned away from the rest of the room, Rossi reached out, feeling his way to a shoulder.

“How’re you doing, Aaron?”

The answering voice had the hollow resonance Rossi associated with the aftermath of tears. “What’d Marty tell you?”

“Nothing.” Rossi kneaded the shoulder under his palm. “He said you guys had talked, but he felt obligated to honor his oath of confidentiality.”

Hotch took a few minutes to mull this over. “He told me you went to visit someone who used to know me.” The head rose again. “Did you?”

“I did.”

A long, considering silence followed.

“Felicia?”

“No. But someone who knew her.”

“Who?”

Rossi felt as though he was treading on quicksand. Without knowing exactly what had set Hotch off during his session with the doctor, he didn’t have a clear idea of what, if anything, he should steer clear of… _Other than his entire life up to the achievement of adulthood._ The wry thought didn’t help in defining boundaries.

“Are you sure you want to get into it tonight, Aaron?” He deepened the shoulder massage. “I don’t need Marty to tell me you’ve had a rough time already…I can hear it in your voice. Maybe we should wait a bit?”

The dark head rested on the pillow again. “Maybe.”

Rossi sighed. Plainly, Hotch wasn’t anywhere _near_ being able to sleep. He didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone when he could almost hear the hamster wheel in his friend’s brain spinning hard enough to jolt itself off the tracks entirely. “You’re hurting, Aaron. I hate seeing you like this. I wish you’d let me in…let me help.”

A few beats of silence while Rossi pressed into the tight muscles behind the shoulder blade.

Then…

“Marty and I talked about being afraid. About what scares people…me, actually.” The words were so soft, Rossi could hear reluctance and shame and, even after all they’d been through, as close as they were, doubt about the acceptability of admitting to fear.

“Everyone is afraid at some point, Aaron. You wanna know what scares me?” He could feel Hotch’s dark gaze waiting for him to elaborate, ready to compare their individual fears…already halfway to thinking his own would be the less worthy.

Rossi took a deep breath. “I’m afraid of dying alone…with no family beside me.”

Finally, Hotch turned his body; lying flat now; no longer facing away. “But you have us. Your Jack’s Poppi.”

“And for that I’ll always be grateful. But I still wake up sometimes in the dark and it hits me that I missed out on raising a family of my own.” He brushed Hotch’s hair away from the forehead that looked like marble beneath the pale rays entering through the window. “I have other fears, but that’s one. A big one.”

He could hear Hotch swallow.

“I told Marty I’m afraid of screwing things up, especially with Jack.” Hotch took a deep, shuddering breath. “I won’t know if I’m doing it all wrong until it’s too late, Dave. And I don’t have the experience with family to know what it’s supposed to be like. I’m not _good_ at family. All I can pass on to my son is how to ruin family. That’s what he’s learning from me every day.”

Rossi stared. In the dark he could see the glint of Hotch’s eyes, unblinking. He could hear the genuine pain in his friend’s voice. But the man’s verdict on his legacy was so misplaced, so at odds with how Rossi saw him, he needed a moment to regroup mentally.

“That’s what you really think, isn’t it…” Rossi shook his head, baffled by the way Hotch could hold onto something in defiance of all the evidence when it came to judging himself.

“Aaron, it’s late. We have a lot to talk about, but it’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. So I’m going to leave you with a couple of thoughts. First, you and Jack _are_ my family…but so is the team…the team _you_ created. And _you’re_ the cement holding that whole disparate group of individuals together. So don’t you dare think you’re ‘not good at family.’” He took hold of the chin pointed toward him in the dark; more for effect than to force eye contact…something he felt he already had, based on the palpable feel of Hotch’s regard.

“Second, if you want to know what you’re teaching Jack…what he’s learning from you…talk to him. I do. And I can assure you that nothing _ruinous_ has been passed on to him. Ask your son what he’s learned from you so far. I know it’s a big question that he might not be old enough to really understand…but ask him.

“And if you come away with anything less than delight and pride in your son, _that’s_ when we’ll know to take a closer look at your interpersonal, parenting, _family-making_ skills. Now…” Rossi released Hotch’s chin, opting to ruffle his hair instead. “…get some sleep. Think about having that conversation with Jack.”

Rossi leaned over and pressed a kiss on the array of cowlicks he’d made even worse. He left the room with a  faint smile, knowing that planting Jack in his thoughts right before sleep was Aaron’s best chance of having pleasant dreams.

 

xxxxxx

 

A cold, wet nose intruded on Jack’s sleep.

Squinching his face up tight, he rubbed Mudgie’s damp leavings from his face. Or maybe it was Fudge. He supposed wet noses were pretty much the same from dog to dog. He struggled up from the furry bodies bracketing him, wondering why he wasn’t waking up next to Daddy. Dr. Palmer had said he’d carry him in before morning.

He looked around and realized it was still night. And he could almost-not-quite hear Poppi and the doctor talking downstairs. So it wasn’t that he’d been forgotten. Dr. Palmer just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

No matter. He knew the way.

It took some effort to extricate himself; parts of his pajamas were trapped beneath his canine bedmates. But after struggling free, he dropped to the floor and padded down the hall to Daddy’s room. The door was ajar, but the light was off.

Jack pushed it open and made a purposeful beeline to the bed. The beds at Poppi’s were higher off the ground than any others he’d ever seen. He did a little bouncing jump, grabbing onto the covers and scrabbling his way up. He crawled across the expanse of mattress, headed for the long lump near the middle.

Careful not to bump the sore spot on Daddy’s left side, Jack burrowed under the blankets, nestling up against the warmth and the scent that would always…even as a grown man…even as an _old_ man…make him feel safe and loved.

He pressed close enough to hear the strong, rhythm of the heart beating in tandem with his own.

With a contented sigh, Jack closed his eyes.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch had finally drifted off.

He wasn’t consciously aware when something determined…something on a snuggle-mission…something bent on cuddling up against him…nestled into his chest. Instinctively, he twisted, closing his arms around the small, perfect treasure he was so afraid of ruining. 


	69. Good Guy

Garcia was hard at work before any of the others had even rubbed the sleep from their eyes.

In truth, she’d hardly been able to stop thinking. Her brain was spinning, strategizing the continuing digital search for Felicia Somebody. Her fingers itched to work their magic on the keyboards that were her entrée to a world few could surf so elegantly.

Finally, she couldn’t wait any longer. She filled a thermos with extra-triple-strength coffee…the kind that would kill less hardy souls…and headed in to the Bureau.

She didn’t know the details. Didn’t need to. The thought of somebody lovely out there, somebody who’d been a kindly force in Boss-man’s life when Garcia sensed he’d really needed it, galvanized her. So much so, that she hardly required coffee at all.

Once in her lair, her fingers flew until the sound of individual keystrokes melded into one, long, unceasing tone; an anthem for the age of technology.

Garcia was determined _not_ to overstep her bounds this time, but she was also _not_ going to leave the Bluefields Police Department with even a shred of online privacy. She plunged in with gusto, with a ravenous appetite for data.

And was brought up short.

Rossi’s suspicions had been well-founded. The Bluefields PD had only digitalized their records going back to the mid-1990s. Garcia fumed at what she considered the prehistoric facilities of small towns. She would have been aghast had she known that they only had two computers in the office. And only one person who was marginally proficient at operating either one. And one hard drive had crashed several days ago. And no one knew how to troubleshoot.

She tapped her fingers and sipped her caffeinated diesel-fuel, waiting for a decent hour when she imagined whoever passed for the most senior member of the Bluefields PD would clock in for his shift.

 _And in such a benighted place, I bet it **is**_ _a ‘he.’_

In Garcia’s mind, if an organization was technologically challenged, then it probably adhered to other outmoded standards, too.

 _I bet they’ve never heard of Equal Opportunity Employment_ _either._ She gave a long-suffering sniff and glanced at the time stamp on her screensaver. An hour to go before she could even _begin_ to think about calling and asking how they handled archives from the ancient times of pre-1990.  

Her thoughts drifted.

She gave the icon harboring her saved files, gathered during the search for Felicia, a sidelong glance. There was so much information available on young Hotch and his neighbors that she had resisted…hadn’t even sampled. She’d confined herself to searching for Felicia and, as part of that, Bledsoe. The rest she’d made a concerted effort to avoid in the name of privacy. But she’d saved all the pertinent files, unread, in case they were needed.  

Hotch was an extremely reserved, introverted man. But after the team’s sickroom intervention, Garcia wondered if that was because he _wanted_ to keep to himself…or if he just didn’t know how to open up. She stared at the icon, feeling as though it were Pandora’s box.

_It’s none of my business._

But there was something so utterly heartbroken…so wretchedly alone…about Hotch.

 **_If_ ** _I looked, it wouldn’t be out of voyeuristic curiosity. It’d be because he’s wonderful and something hurt him long ago. And I know what that’s like. And someone should help him. And…and…and he’s **still** hurting. And I just **know** it. And if I **already** know it…then…then…it’s not just snooping. It’s more… **altruistic** …_

Garcia swallowed, feeling her heart rate increase. And not from the high octane-brew she was drinking.

_No! No…no…no…no…no! Bad Penelope!!_

Before she did anything she’d regret, Garcia closed the window dedicated to private research done at co-workers’ requests. She chewed on her lip and watched the secondhand sweeping around the pink face of her vintage Daisy Duck watch. She rehearsed what she would say when she reached someone in the Bluefields PD. After a while, she felt her calm restored…well, as much as it ever existed in the first place.

She would _not_ invade Hotch’s privacy.

But the icon that represented his past…his damage and his secrets…and maybe the best advice on how to reach him and comfort him…maybe even free him…glowed in her mind’s eye. And she knew it would still be there on her desktop when she reactivated her screen.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch became aware that his nose was under attack.

_Why? Why is it always my nose?_

It wasn’t a particularly noticeable nose. It wasn’t a mean nose, or a manner-less nose that poked its way in where it wasn’t wanted…unless in the line of duty, of course. And Hotch was actually rather fond of it. Attached to it, one might say. It had served him well, and he’d hoped it would be with him for at least a few more years.

But Jack seemed to favor it as a target. This time he was in cub-mode, worrying the poor, innocent protrusion with cub-growls and cub-teeth.

_Fine way to treat your tribal chieftain._

Deciding it was time to remind his following-of-one that he had a long way to grow before he could successfully force such indignities on his leader, Hotch sprang into action. With a mighty roar that delighted his son, he came fully awake, wrapping his limbs around the cub stretched along the length of his torso. Rolling over, he trapped the giggling offender beneath him. Hotch opened his mouth, demonstrating that _he_ could engulf nose _and_ a good portion of face.

But the cub had a secret weapon.

Giggling.

It was contagious, infectious…ultimately debilitating. And the cub knew how to wield it.

When he felt the Leopard Chief weaken, he imitated the hug-and-roll move, pushing his way back on top. Arms braced, he stared into the laughing eyes…still sleepy, but so full of warmth.

“I love you, Daddy.”

It came out of nowhere.

Hotch’s expression turned solemn. “I love you, too, Buddy. So much it hurts.”

“But you said that’s a _good_ hurt, right?”

“Yeah. The _best_ kind of hurt.” They gazed into each other’s eyes for a few beats, both feeling some wordless, deeper communication taking place.

“Jack, what else have I said that you remember? What else have I taught you?”

The child blinked. “I dunno. Lots of stuff.”

_He’s too young for me to be looking to him for some kind of validation. Dave’s wrong, if he thinks I can have a discussion like this with a five-year-old._

Jack was puzzled. But Daddy was waiting for more, so he had to put on his thinking cap and try harder. And _that_ was something he’d heard Daddy say before.

“I know to keep trying.”

Hotch’s son dug deeper. He had a feeling this was one of those grown-up questions that didn’t have just one answer. He hated those. They were tricky. But…there _was_ something that he knew just from being Jack Hotchner, son of an honest-to-goodness, real live superhero.

“I know good guys win. And _no_ one beats Daddy. ‘Cause you’re the good guy.”

It was Hotch’s turn to blink into the brown gaze hovering mere inches away. He would _never_ have said that to his own father. Never in a million years. He felt a lump closing his throat. He didn’t want his son to see him cry even a little bit just now. So he wound his arms around the small body and pressed it close, forcing it to break eye contact in favor of snuggling into the side of his neck.

_Good guys win. My son thinks I’m a **good** guy. Not just a strong guy or the guy who wins ‘just ‘cause.’ But a **good** guy. Me._

It was one of the best gifts Aaron had ever received.

He closed his eyes. Smiling, he reveled in the closeness of his son. And privately wondered, if Dave was right about this, about asking Jack in a roundabout way how he was doing as a father…then maybe Dave was right about a few other things, too.

Something in him balked at the idea. Still. _Maybe always. And maybe that’s part of being broken._ He’d have to think about it.

But right now, he didn’t want to think at all. He just wanted to feel. Because for the first time in a long time, giving in to his emotions made Hotch happy.

_I feel…good._

 


	70. Step By Step

At precisely 9:01 a.m. Garcia hit the send button, transmitting the phone number she’d entered nearly two hours earlier…waiting for the optimum moment when she estimated the head honcho of the Bluefields PD would most likely be on hand.

During her wait, she’d built up a most unflattering picture of the department in her mind. She envisioned doughnut-scarfing good ol’ boys lounging about with their mud-encrusted boots propped up on desks buried beneath years-old paperwork that would never be filed, let alone entered into a database.

Alternatively, she’d imagined a cadre of backwoodsmen, buff and pumped, hunting various woodland ‘critters’ for dinners that would be stewed in a single pot hanging over an open flame. And eaten without silverware. And, again, with a regrettable inability to grasp the importance of data entry.

She expected the phone to ring at least a dozen times before it would register on someone that it might be a good idea to pick up the call.

So she was stunned into momentary silence when the cheerful, yet officious voice of a woman answered before the first ring had completed.

“Bluefields Police. Is this an emergency?”

“I…uh…no! No, it’s…it’s not an emergency.”

The voice immediately lost its edge, dropping down a tone into the pleasant, soft cadences that made Virginia’s one of Garcia’s favorite regional accents. “Well, then, how may I help you, dear?”

The endearment put Penelope in mind of a grandmotherly sort. Someone who used her position to dole out comfort and wisdom, whether or not her target recipient had requested such. Someone whose authority sprang from age rather than a badge. Garcia’s biased imaginings had been dealt a blow, but she hadn’t been won over. She still expected to encounter obstacles of pre-computer age ignorance.

“Dear? Are you still there?”

“Um…yes…yes…Sorry.” She braced herself to deal with a technologically inferior being. “Actually, I was wondering how you guys, uh…keep your records archived? You know? From the past? Like 1975?”

A chuckle came back at her. “Dear, I _know_ what archives are. That far back, _if_ we have them, they’d be down in the basement. In boxes, dear.” The accent sharpened. “Why do you ask?”

“Uh…I was just wondering…” Garcia swallowed, aware that Rossi might not want her to say too much. She wished she had a better idea what the situation that he was asking her to research was. But, saying too little was preferable to dropping a verbal wrench into the works. “I was just wondering. And…uh…now I know. Thank you!” She closed the connection.

Not too smooth, but she cut herself some slack. Working half-blind as to the circumstances wasn’t conducive to producing the elegant results that were her norm. She glanced at the icon representing all the Bluefields data available that _hadn’t_ shown relevancy for the names Felicia or Bledsoe. _I bet if I read through some of those files, I’d be a lot more useful._ She gave her head a little shake, forcing her eyes away from the monitor. _No! Stop it, Penelope. Just stop it._

Garcia gave a regretful sigh for the data she was denying herself as she punched the speed dial for Rossi.

 

xxxxxx

 

Rumpled and yawning, Rossi and Marty encountered each other in the kitchen; both bent on brewing coffee as the first order of the new day. Conversation was minimal until each had a steaming cup in hand.

Rossi leaned his elbows on the table, breathing in the wonderful aroma of his custom Arabian blend. “Garcia’s gonna try to access police records today…See if she can at least get a surname for Felicia.” Rossi took a deep drink, sighing with contentment as warmth spread through his chest. “I need to talk with Aaron about my meeting with Bledsoe…Not sure if I should tell him everything. Some of it he might not want to remember, or, if he does, might not like the idea of anyone else knowing.”

Marty shrugged, nose deep in his own cup. “Wish I had some rock solid advice for you, Dave. But I don’t.”

“I know. We’re entering strange waters…untried ground. There’s no map or compass to guide us.”

“Then all you can do is go slow…feel your way. Keep trying different keys until you find the one that unlocks that boy.”

Rossi nodded. “So…that’s my agenda. What’s yours for the day?”

A tremendous roar sounded. It echoed down the staircase, causing both men to straighten and turn toward the noise.

The doctor raised his brows. “Sounds like the leopards are restless.”

A shrieking giggle followed.

Marty turned back to his coffee. “I think my day’s gonna be pretty light. Jack’s almost ready to go back to school. Maybe two more days, just to be sure…and just because I get the feeling those two don’t have as much time together as they’d like. I have an idea that this much bonding time is a rare treat. Maybe it’s a little more important than an extra day or two of school.

“So I’ll keep the little one occupied while you talk with the big one. And when you’re done with him, I’ll check Aaron over.”

“He’s coming along though…right?”

Marty nodded, taking another sip of coffee. “Sure. But he’s still weak and, as of last night, was still running a temperature of 101. He needs more time. I think it’s safe to say he got through measles without any of the really scary complications. So…”

Rossi’s phone chimed. He glanced at the caller ID and smiled. “Garcia. Already.” He answered, gesturing to Marty to stay put when the doctor raised his brows, tilting his head toward the living room, asking if Dave wanted privacy.

“Good morning, Penelope. You’re getting an early start…Did you find anything?”

“Morning. It’s a really small town, Rossi. And they don’t have stuff from the 1970s online. I _did_ call. I…I hope that’s still okay?” The tech analyst’s words tumbled out, not waiting for an answer. “And I talked to someone…I don’t know who…but she said that they have archives in their basement…in _boxes_.

“And that doesn’t necessarily mean they even _have_ whatever you’re looking for…or, if they do, that it’s accessible or even readable. ‘Cause, Rossi!...it’s a _basement_! It could be all dank and moldering and falling-apart-rotting. So…I was thinking, sir…if maybe I could know a little more about what you need? And then maybe I could ask them to take a look? And…and…you don’t even have to tell me everything, ‘cause I have loads of data on Hotch that I haven’t looked at ‘cause…you know… _privacy_! But if you say it’s okay, then maybe I can read what I’ve got here and…”

“ _Garcia_!” Rossi was feeling breathless just listening to the headlong verbal rush.

“Sir?”

“Where’s the team right now? Are they in the field?”

“Uh…no…no…they’re here. I guess since we’re two men down, they’re being given all the consults and the other teams are being sent out…Why?”

Rossi didn’t really hear the rest once Garcia had said the team was on hand. His mind was racing, running different possibilities. Clearly, someone had to make the trip to Bluefields to look through whatever records were available. Not knowing the town’s attitude toward its own past, he didn’t want to rely on secondhand information that might be censored in the interest of preserving community dignity.

He was loathe to leave while Hotch was laid up. There were so few opportunities to really talk to him away from the office, away from distractions. Rossi felt he needed to take advantage of Hotch’s down time. Which meant someone else would need to check out the boxes in the Bluefields PD basement.

But he didn’t want to open up Hotch’s past to the team in general.

Which left only one acceptable solution.

_Morgan. He already knows Hotch was abused. He’s discreet and, if there’s anyone in the black community who knows something about Felicia, he’d be the best one to ferret it out. Especially if the town still has racist tendencies and the officials are reluctant to open old wounds._

Rossi became aware that Garcia was still talking; still offering to look deeper, if only she knew more about the particulars.

“Penelope, you’ve done a great job. Thank you. From both me and Hotch. I’ll try to move things ahead from my end. But, if I need you, you’ll be there?”

“Oh, sir…absolutely…Whenever and whatever, sir. Really.”

“Thanks again. Talk to you later.”

Rossi disconnected and immediately called Morgan.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was heartily sick of being confined to bed.

Once he and Jack were finished roaring and wrestling, he thought it was time to try going downstairs again. He vaguely recalled the feverish attempt he’d made what felt like ages ago, when he’d needed Morgan’s and Rossi’s support to make it back up. But he felt stronger now. And his son was watching him with worshipful, hopeful eyes.

Jack was eager to go downstairs and excited that Daddy was going to make the effort. They could sit at the table with Poppi and Dr. Palmer, and eat breakfast together. He enjoyed the mealtimes in the bedroom, but he knew they were because Daddy didn’t feel well.

It took longer than normal, but Hotch shaved, showered and dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. When he bent over to put on sneakers, he felt a rush of vertigo, but it passed in a few minutes once he righted himself.

Feeling only a little shaky, he smiled down at his son.

“You’ll help me, right, Buddy?”

Jack took his father’s hand and placed in on his small shoulder. “Lean on me, Daddy.”

The voice had a maturity to it in defiance of its owner’s age. The child looked up with a grave expression. “We can do this.”

Hotch bit his lip. The odd contrast amused him, but the impulse to laugh died when he looked at his son’s face. It was full of grim determination. He would do his utmost to make sure Daddy reached the bottom of the stairs safely.

Hotch let a little more of his weight rest on his boy’s shoulder.

“Thanks, Buddy. You’re right. We can do this.”

“C’mon.” Putting one hand over his father’s to keep the contact steady, Jack took the first step. He kept his eyes fastened on the stairs, making sure to go slow, so Daddy wouldn’t stumble.

Gratitude and pride swelled Hotch’s heart until he thought he’d burst. He was a little dizzy by the time they reached the bottom. When Jack turned to him and told him to sit on the steps and rest before they continued their journey across the foyer and into the kitchen, Hotch did as he was told without argument.

Flush with accomplishment, Jack stood over his father, watching him rest, patting his shoulder.

“We did it, Daddy. We can do _anything_.”


	71. Into the Past

Morgan was restless.

He didn’t like watching the other teams head out on field assignments while he was stuck at his desk… ear glued to the phone… eyes glued to a monitor… fingers glued to a pen…

_Butt turning into a lump of glue…_

He shifted in his seat, deciding he needed a walk while he still remembered how to lever himself out of his chair. And the first destination that came to mind was Garcia’s Lair of Technology. The woman had turned her workspace into a quixotic wonderland; every cold, steel surface covered with fanciful toys; everything within the room, including its occupant, a bright explosion of color. Just thinking about it perked Morgan up.

He stood, stretching, and decided to stop by the kitchen first. Surely there was something in the vending machines that would serve as a hostess gift when paying a call on the likes of Penelope Garcia.

 

xxxxxx

 

Almost all of Garcia’s Orange Flame lip gloss was gone.

She’d chewed it off in tiny, nervous nips. She’d chewed it off while staring at the list of files residing in what she now thought of as the Hotch’s-Secrets icon. She’d been resisting it. And she hadn’t exactly _read_ anything it contained. She’d only opened the icon and let it spread its contents before her.

The file names and sizes told her analytical mind a story, even without opening them.

Her eyes welled.

The files from the hospital were huge. They all came from years when Hotch would have been a child. Although the data had been entered long after the fact, whoever had done so had made sure each file’s name indicated the month and year pertaining to the records within. There were just so _many_ of them.

If Hotch had had a medical condition, it might have made sense. But he didn’t. The only chronic problems he had came from injuries’ lingering pain.

Garcia’s large eyes stared, heedless of the tear that trembled on the brink and then traced a salty path down her cheek, marring her artful application of blusher.

_They hurt him. Somebody hurt him. For his entire childhood, he grew up hurt._

When Morgan slid through the door, bearing his offering, a bag of colorful gummy bears, he found Garcia transfixed by a list of unopened files…weeping her heart out.

“Baby Girl? What’s wrong?” He knelt beside her chair, glancing from her tearstained complexion to the uninformative screen. “Penelope? Talk to me…”

“Oh…oh…” Her gaze broke from the monitor, fastening on her friend’s kind, worried face. “Oh…Derek…they hurt him, didn’t they?!” She buried a noisy snuffle in one ostrich-trimmed cuff; something she would regret later when she tried in vain to restore its flutter.

“Who? Who got hurt?” Morgan hugged her damp face to his shoulder, feeling as though he’d fallen down a rabbit hole where everything was vibrant and bright, but made no sense whatsoever.

“Hotch!...” She wailed into his shirt. “Hotch…they hurt him, didn’t they!”

Morgan’s mind raced. If anything had happened to Hotch, Rossi would have contacted him. _And how much danger can find him when he’s laid up in a bed? In a mansion? With a veteran FBI agent and a doctor in attendance 24/7? **And** two big dogs?_

He was still squinting past Garcia’s bead-and-sequin hair ornament, trying to see the window open on her computer to glean a clue as to what might have set her off, when his phone shrilled at him, demanding attention. With one arm still holding the trembling tech analyst close, he thumbed the phone without looking at the caller ID.

“Yeah! Morgan here. Who’s this?”

“Isn’t it a little early to sound like you wanna bite someone’s head off, Derek?”

“Rossi!” He felt Garcia stiffen in his embrace. “Is Hotch okay?”

There was a puzzled pause. “He’s coming along. Still has a fever, but…Marty says he dodged the serious stuff that can hit when an adult gets measles. So…yeah…Hotch’s good.”

“Well then…what the?...” Morgan pulled back slightly, giving Garcia an appraising stare.

“What’s going on?”

“Not sure. Garcia’s upset about something…Something to do with Hotch.”

“I just hung up from talking to her a couple minutes ago. She was fine.”

Morgan’s sigh was deep, redolent with amused frustration. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.” His tone lightened even as he kept hugging the sniffling techie, who he thought _might_ be trying to eavesdrop. “So when’re you guys gonna come back to work? Watching the other teams go out is gettin’ real old, real fast.”

“Does that mean you wouldn’t mind a field assignment of sorts?” Rossi’s voice carried a smug, but tantalizing note.

Morgan’s brief hesitation had more to do with amazed gratitude than reluctance. “Just tell me where and when, m’man.”

“Bluefields? Is he sending you to Bluefields?” Garcia un-burrowed from her Chocolate Idol’s shoulder long enough to blurt.

“Rossi, I’m gonna guess…Bluefields…wherever the hell that is.”

“Have Garcia fill you in on what she knows. Then, give me a call back.” Rossi paused, hearing Penelope’s soft, protesting whimpers in the background. “And when you call back, we need to talk in private, _capiche_?”

“Got it.”

Morgan disconnected and spent the next half hour listening to Garcia describe her foray into collecting information on someone named Felicia…as well as her worries and outrage about Hotch’s past and the technological inferiority of the town of their leader’s birth. The agent did his best to soothe her with gummy bears and reassurances that children can catch all kinds of illnesses and have all kinds of accidents, which would account for much of what concerned her when it came to the byte size of the hospital files.

But as he took the upper hand, removing temptation and closing down the list of medical documents, he noted their numbers and sizes…and how old the Unit Chief would have been at the time of the various treatments.

Morgan knew he’d spend the trip to Bluefields fantasizing about finding Hotch’s father miraculously alive…and then pulverizing him to dust.

 

xxxxxxx

 

When Jack led Hotch into the kitchen, he beamed at Poppi and the doctor.

“I brought Daddy.” It was the same voice he might have used when presenting a particularly beloved treasure to classmates for a show-and-tell day.

The older men looked the slightly unsteady Leopard Chief up and down. Then pushed him into a chair at the breakfast table. Marty continued to give him a long, considering appraisal.

“Feeling a little better?”

Hotch nodded. “Yeah. Actually, I’m kind of hungry.” He didn’t understand why Rossi and the doctor exchanged wickedly mischievous looks.

“Dave, he hasn’t seen… _it_ …yet, you know?”

Rossi’s grin widened. “Aaron, if I could direct your attention to the refrigerator.” With a flourish, he threw open the door, exhibiting the still-impressive dimensions of Garcia’s contribution to Banish Hunger Forever For The Hotchner Boys.

Aaron’s mouth slowly opened an inch or two. His eyes roved over the monumental proportions; from top to bottom, from left to right. “Garcia?”

“Uh-huh. And we’ve put quite a dent in it since she brought it all over, but it’s still…”

“…Wow…” Hotch finished the sentence with fitting awe and appreciation.

 

xxxxxx

 

Hotch ate, but not with the ravenous appetite of a man fully recovered. When mealtime was over, Marty took Jack away, giving the other two some time to talk.

Rossi poured a large mug of tea, laced with honey and lemon. Pushing it in front of Aaron, he took a seat opposite him. He could tell Hotch knew what was coming. But he couldn’t tell how he was feeling about it. He watched the younger man sip his tea, noting that he was avoiding eye contact.

“Aaron, I’m going to ask you straight out…do you want to hear what I found out about your past?” He paused, but there was no immediate answer. “I can tell you it wasn’t pretty, but you already know that better than anyone.”

Hotch studied his cup and the way his fingers laced around it, absorbing the warmth it offered. Finally, he looked up. “I honestly don’t know, Dave. I…I…”

“It’s okay, Aaron. If you don’t want to know, I’ll keep it to myself. And I won’t think any the less of you. It’s okay to be scared…remember?” Rossi kept his voice low, soothing. “None of this can hurt you now. None of it.”

“Yes, it can.” Hotch swallowed. Taking a steadying breath, he let his gaze drift upward, but not to eye level. He addressed his comments to Rossi’s chin. “It hurt about Felicia. Not the memory of her, but the fact that I forgot her when she was…” His voice cracked, but continued without a pause. “…she was someone who helped me.” The eyes drifted down again, ashamed. “What kind of person completely forgets someone who was good to him?”

Rossi sighed. “A young person does. A traumatized person does. Little Aaron Hotchner, who lived through hell does.” He couldn’t tell if his words were having the impact he intended. “We’re still looking for Felicia, but what I learned last night is that you weren’t as alone as you thought. People cared, but they were scared of what your father could do to them. Same as you. And like I keep saying…it’s alright to be scared.”

Hotch licked his lips. “Okay.” His knuckles whitened as he gripped the cup harder, holding onto it as though it would keep him grounded in the here and now. “But if I ask you to…you’ll stop?”

Rossi’s eyes closed for a few seconds as a surge of pain on Aaron’s behalf swept through him. “I promise I’ll stop if you want me to.” _And I promise I’ll hold you if it hurts too much…and I won’t let go until you say._

Hotch nodded. “Alright then.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “Tell me. ‘Cause all I remember is being afraid and angry…and the pain. I remember hurting all the time. But that’s all.

“Tell me, Dave.”

Rossi was careful with his words. He kept the recitation accurate, but gentle, if gentility is possible in tales of cruelty and bleak desperation.

Afterwards, he moved to Aaron’s side and held him. Tightly. Until the shivering stopped.


	72. Bluefields

Rossi held on.

When Marty peered around the corner, Dave gave his head an almost imperceptible shake. He and Hotch needed more time. The doctor nodded, withdrawing, returning to Jack and a DVD whose volume was turned up a little louder than necessary; a tool to mask any noise the men in the kitchen might make.

Rossi held on.

It felt strange and unsettling that Hotch didn’t make noise when he was distressed. He could. He’d done it before. When he’d cradled his wife’s corpse at the scene of her murder, the strangled sounds issuing from Hotch’s throat had made the entire contingent of emergency responders wince. They were relieved when Morgan took up guard duty, sending all comers away until his boss had had a chance to work through the first, intense wave of raw grief.

But now…silence.

Just the terrible shuddering, like a man turning to ice from the inside out. _Or maybe the ice breaking up, cracking, ready to float away in a Spring thaw_ , he thought hopefully.

Rossi held on.

He couldn’t begin to guess what Aaron was experiencing. He knew how brave he was. When Marty had expressed admiration for the totality with which Hotch had surrendered to the underlying panic that coated his childhood memories, keeping them at bay, he hadn’t been surprised. Whatever else one might say about him, Hotch was a master of commitment. Once he’d made up his mind, he engaged himself completely. No holding back. It was the process of getting to that point that sometimes made him stumble. An abundance of caution attended his approach.

But Hotch had let go this time. Because Dave was his friend. Because he trusted him. Because a tiny portion of his intellect was curious. Because he had a suspicion ‘real people’ could think of their hometowns fondly, not through a curtain of blind panic. And Hotch wanted to know what it was like to be ‘real.’

His favorite children’s story was ‘The Velveteen Rabbit.’ He couldn’t recall all the details, but someone…maybe Felicia?...maybe a teacher?...had read it to him. The tale of a toy worn and used, battered and torn, and ultimately ‘real,’ because of the love with which it had been imbued. Little Aaron had told himself over and over that all his hurts, all the bruises and sprains and broken bones, and all the wounds that went deeper than the flesh…that scored and slashed at his spirit…they would all be worth it, because in the end they would make him ‘real.’

He’d wanted to be that rabbit in the story so very, very badly.

Instead, all the pain had done was combine into a gray, miasma of spotty recollections and displaced anxiety, that cloaked his childhood with a panic reaction if he came too close.

He’d forgotten the Velveteen Rabbit. He’d remembered it while Dave was talking.

And Aaron saw the error of his ways. The toy rabbit’s injuries were the result of a little boy’s adoration. Aaron Hotchner’s came from something quite different.

The rabbit ended up real and loved. Little Aaron was just…different…and damaged.

Hotch saw how futile and hopeless that dream had been. It had helped him survive, but it hadn’t made him ‘real.’ And whatever other fragments of memory were sparked by Rossi recounting his meeting with Ernest Bledsoe, that one hit Hotch in the gut like his father’s fist.

He couldn’t speak. And he couldn’t stop the tremors wracking his body.

But Rossi held on.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan locked in the GPS coordinates for Bluefields, VA, and hit the road, happy to have a mission that would get him out from behind his desk.

He’d made his excuses to the others without revealing too much. J.J., Prentiss and Reid just shrugged and went back to work. Garcia watched with wide, doe’s eyes, calling after him to ‘be careful,’ and  to ‘call me if you need anything.’ He’d smiled as he pulled out of the Bureau garage. If Penelope had had a lace hanky on hand, she would have waved it after him like a sentimental heroine from an age when lace hankies were _de rigueur_.

Once he was well on the way, he called Rossi.

“Hey, Derek.”

Morgan paused, hearing something strange, as though the older man was trying to tamp down a surfeit of emotion. Given the nature of this field assignment, and knowing more than most about Hotch, Morgan made his best guess, proceeding with caution, giving Rossi the option when it came to sharing information. “Hey. I’m on my way to that Bluefields place. Sounds…interesting, if what Garcia told me is true.” He took a breath, preparing. “You said Hotch was okay on the measles front….Anything else come up?”

“Yeah.” Rossi sounded ragged. “I didn’t want to involve the others. That’s Hotch’s call. But, _you_ …well…”

“I know, man. Hotch and me. We have some stuff in common. You don’t have to explain. He knows I’ve got his back, side, front…whatever…past _and_ present. Just tell me what I need to know.”

Rossi did. Omitting nothing, except for Hotch’s reaction. But as Morgan listened, as his stomach clenched, his teeth ground, and his muscles tensed…he could imagine how that flood of ugly memories would have hit a man like Hotch.

When he’d first started working with him, Morgan had thought Hotch was, in his words, ‘one tough son of a bitch.’ But he’d admired the work ethic and the soul-deep goodness that made his boss one of the most honest, brave, selfless men he’d ever met. He sensed there was something more fragile at the man’s core; something that the hard exterior had been erected to conceal.

When he’d seen Hotch become a father, Morgan had smiled. All the gentle strength and boundless love that surrounded Jack came from that softer something that Hotch kept hidden deep inside.

Morgan grew to love him like a brother, which had puzzled him a little. He usually didn’t respond to anyone that way, no matter how admirable, unless there was a common bond. But when he’d discovered what that bond was…why he sensed that kindred spirit inside Hotch…Morgan had wanted to howl his rage. He’d wanted to destroy the subhuman beast who’d made his friend a walking monument to inner pain.

Instead, he watched his boss more closely than any of his other teammates. He protected the man because he’d been hurt enough. He’d lost enough. And it seemed it would never end. Morgan understood that.

“Okay, Rossi. Thanks for the background. I’ll find out what happened. If the archives don’t tell me, I’ll find someone who knew Felicia. Has to be someone still around.”

“Thanks, Derek.”

“And tell Hotch…” Morgan paused. There weren’t any words. None that could express his outrage, or his desire to protect, or his fervent wish that he could turn back time and make it all come out differently.

“Ah, hell. Just tell him I’ll see him soon. And we miss him. We need him back.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Bluefields was shabby.

Morgan drove around a little, getting a feel for the community before dropping in on the police station. Garcia had given him the address of Hotch’s boyhood home. In such a small town, it was easy to find. Even with the general state of disrepair, Morgan gave a soft whistle when he saw the place. The whole street was impressive in a disheveled sort of way.

Like the others, Hotch’s house was set back from the curb, columned and porticoed. The grounds were expansive, but fallen to weeds and bald patches of dry, dusty, parched earth. Three stories of once-proud architecture cried out for paint, siding, and a new roof.

Morgan had mixed feelings.

On the one hand, his fingers itched to pick up tools and restore these buildings to the grandeur he imagined they’d once enjoyed. On the other, he thought that the main benefit of living in a place like that would have been that it probably had a lot of hiding places. Places where a small boy could hope to disappear until whatever monster pursued him moved on.

It was midday. He didn’t see children playing or much in the way of family life. A few senior citizens sat on porches, sunning themselves. Bluefields didn’t feel vital. It felt tired; used up.

It could have been a nice place to grow up, though. If things had been different.

_If…Too many ‘ifs’ for Hotch. **If** he’d had normal parents. **If** the town hadn’t been under his Dad’s thumb. **If** prejudice and ignorance hadn’t put an end to Felicia’s presence in his life._

Morgan shook his head. Too many ‘ifs’ just added up to regrets, dry and dead and blown away long ago. That’s what the town felt like.

_Might as well do what I came here to do._

He drove away from what had once been Hotch’s home with the SUV windows rolled up. This was a town with ghosts hanging over it. Morgan didn’t even want to breathe the air where Hotch had been in hell, if he could avoid it.

 

xxxxxx

 

When he pulled up in front of the Bluefields PD, Morgan debated how he would present himself.

He decided to leave his gun in the glove compartment, but take his badge with him, just in case. This wasn’t FBI business, so he’d prefer not identifying himself as an agent. But if it took some authoritative bullying to access the archives, he’d do so. However, if the town was as Garcia feared, still drenched in racial strife, he thought a black man wearing a gun could be seen as a challenge…a threat even. Morgan didn’t want to bet on whether or not the local PD would shoot first and ask questions later.

He entered the lobby and found himself facing a receptionist/dispatcher. She looked well past retirement age, and was reading a ‘Better Homes and Gardens’ magazine; something Morgan found ironic, considering the state of the town. Ranged beyond her were three desks. Two unoccupied; the third held down by a uniformed, bored-looking man in his mid-forties. He was playing with paperclips, staring at the screen of an early model PC that would have made Garcia blanch.

“May I help you?” There was no challenge in the receptionist’s voice. Only curiosity…and maybe a little irritation at being interrupted. The officer looked up, taking the stranger’s measure, but, again, Morgan got no sense of hostility or alarm.

He had to remind himself that things change. This sad, little town wasn’t what it had been thirty years ago. In some ways that was good.

“Afternoon. I was wondering if I could take a look at some old records you might have in storage. From the 1970s. That possible?”

She put her magazine down and raked sharp eyes over the visitor. Morgan was taken off guard when she peered over the tops of her reading glasses and gave him a shrewd smile. “You have anything to do with a young lady who called here earlier? Asking about records from 1975 and acting like she was talking to a country bumpkin?”

The officer in the background gave a snort of barely concealed laughter. He abandoned his paperclips, standing and stretching the kinks out of his back. Folding his arms, he watched the exchange, making no attempt to look as though he wasn’t listening in.

The receptionist raised her brows. “I’m waiting for an answer, young man.”

The officer took a step closer. “If you don’t answer her, mister, she’s gonna be mean as a sack of snakes for the rest of the day. She’s already chased off both my deputies ‘cause of that phone call.” He shook his head. “They left me here to take the brunt. Please don’t make it worse.”

Morgan couldn’t help looking at his feet as he tried to hide his own grin. He decided honesty was the best way to begin. “I’m sorry if she offended you. She was just trying to find out if you even had what I’m interested in on hand. She didn’t mean to insult anyone or anything. I’m sorry.” He gave her his most charming, hopefully disarming look.

“Well, that’s not true. But you’re trying to excuse her and that makes you a gentleman in my book.” She folded her hands and leaned forward. “Now…tell me what you want, young man…” 


	73. From Blue Skies to Bluefields

When Hotch had finally straightened, pushing against the circle of Rossi’s arms, he was breathing hard; shivering, but dry-eyed.

Rossi loosened his hold, but didn’t release him. After a few more minutes, Hotch mastered his respiration. He looked up, making only glancing eye contact with Rossi. The older man searched the younger’s face.

“You alright?” His heart sank a little when Hotch shook his head.

“How _can_ I be?”

Rossi used one of his professional voices when he replied, one intended to calm distraught victims whose emotions were unpredictable; it was a tool for dealing with those in need of careful handling.

“Nothing’s changed, Aaron. You’re the same man you were when you woke up this morning; the same man who showered and shaved; the same man who let Jack think he was supporting his father down the stairs. Nothing’s changed.”

“That’s not true. I…I…” Unable to find the words, Hotch let his gaze drop to the floor, eyes moving as though they were searching for something. He pulled further away from Rossi. “I…I think I wanna be alone for a while.”

Rossi’s heart dropped the rest of the way down, threatening to leave a cold vacancy in his chest where warmth should be the norm. “Aaron…did I make a mistake in telling you Bledsoe’s story?”

“Uh…no. No, it’s…no.” He chewed his bottom lip, eyes still darting. “I’m okay. I’m okay…”

It was automatic for Hotch to offer reassurance. Rossi couldn’t be certain of sincerity or validity…only of Hotch’s consideration of others’ feelings before his own. And when ‘I’m okay’ made an appearance, he felt even bleaker about what he’d done, despite Aaron’s words.

Rossi kept silent and stayed close. Maybe things just needed to settle. He let Hotch out of the loose hug he’d been maintaining, moving one hand to his shoulder, letting the other rest its fingers with a light touch along his friend’s cheek. It was a tentative hold meant more for comfort than control.

“Aaron, I’m so sorry.”

“No. No, it’s just…” Finally, the dark eyes full of desperate questions lifted. “Why? What did I do? I don’t understand, Dave. Why me? There _has_ to be a reason. Why?”

Rossi gave a deep sigh, one finger caressing the cheekbone of this man whose need for answers would never be satisfied. “I don’t know, Aaron.” His forehead wrinkled with concern. “That’s like asking ‘what is the purpose of life,’ or ‘why is the sky blue.’ There is no easy answer. None we can understand anyway. It just _is_. In your case…it just _was_. At least it’s in the past.”

But Rossi wasn’t sure. If Hotch had repressed big chunks of his childhood and they’d begun to resurface, thanks to the debatable judgment of his best friend in bringing them back into the light, the emotions accompanying the resurrected memories probably had power and immediacy equal to the original events that spawned them.

He rubbed Hotch’s shoulder, wishing he could share the shock, or at least ration it out in more manageable increments.

“I need to think…to be alone, Dave.” Hotch licked his lips and got to his feet. “I’m gonna lie down for a while.”

“I’m going with you…Just to make sure you get up the stairs okay. Then I’ll let you have your space.”

But no sooner had the two men begun to cross the foyer, staircase bound, than Jack’s piping voice stopped Hotch in his tracks. “Daddy! Wait! I have to help you!”

Rossi saw Aaron’s desire to be alone eclipsed by the desire to make his son feel important and necessary in his father’s life. He watched the dejected shoulders heave a sigh of resignation before turning toward the child.

Jack pushed between Poppi and Daddy, taking Hotch’s hand and straining to look upward at the adult faces so far above his own. “ _My_ job,” he announced imperiously, making sure Rossi, beloved Poppi though he was, knew that a certain pecking order existed when it came to escorting Daddy.

“Thanks, Buddy.” Hotch gripped the banister, white-knuckled, letting it take the bulk of his weight as he pulled himself upward. He pressed down on Jack’s shoulder just enough to make him feel he was helping. Rossi followed a respectful two steps behind; ready to prop up emotionally drained, still-recuperating Hotch, if necessary.

He went as far as the bedroom door. When Aaron flopped down on the bed, Jack clambered up beside him, instinctively knowing that comfort was called for. Rossi left the two Hotchners alone, still wondering if the flood of memories was too much for Aaron to handle.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Hotch closed his eyes, feeling Jack press up against his side.

“Daddy…are you okay?”

He could feel his son’s worry; feel his son’s gaze locked on him. He turned his head on the pillow and looked into Jack’s dark eyes inches away. They spoke in whispers. Not for privacy’s sake, but because Hotch’s shock was almost palpable, demanding the sanctity of quiet in its aftermath.

“Yeah. I just need some time to think, Buddy.”

“‘Bout what?”

Aaron blinked, studying his son’s eyes. _How do I explain something I can’t find words for? How do I tell him what **I** don’t understand?...what I never want him to **have** to understand? _ He swallowed.

“‘Bout questions…big ones.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Hotch thought of Dave’s analogy. “…Like ‘why is the sky blue?’”

Jack giggled. “That’s easy.”

Hotch’s brows rose, inviting more. Jack snuggled closer, speaking with his nose muffled against his father’s side.

“The sky’s blue ‘cause it’s the best color for skies to be. Blue makes the _best_ skies, Daddy.”

Hotch stared at the top of the small head nuzzling into him…and smiled.

 _Maybe that’s my answer. Maybe it all had to happen the way it did, so I could have this…If that was the price for Jack, I can live with it. Because then it was all worth it._ He brushed his lips against the baby-fine hair.

 _God, I think I’d even do it again…for a moment like this…_ He closed his eyes, breathing in the sweet, childish scent. _…Just…like…this…_

 

xxxxxxxx

 

“I’m looking for someone.” Morgan saw no reason to conceal his mission. If there were no helpful police records, he planned to wander the town asking every likely-looking citizen if they’d ever known or heard of a black woman named Felicia. “My friend who called you earlier told me you thought records from the 1970s might be stored down in your basement?”

The elderly receptionist narrowed her sharp eyes at him. “No. I told her they _are_ in the basement. No ‘might’ about it. Don’t like her much as it is. If she made me sound like a fool in the tellin’, I like her even less.”

Morgan glanced at the officer watching the exchange. He seemed content to let the stranger in town fend for himself when it came to deciphering how to placate his office staff. More than content. He seemed to be enjoying the entertainment.

“Again, ma’am…I’m sor...”

“Oh, hush. And don’t ‘ma’am’ me. Makes me feel old. Don’t need _you_ makin’ me feel older than I am…” Marking her place in her magazine, the woman stood. She turned her back on Morgan. Making her way between the deputies’ desks, she disappeared around a corner, muttering to herself the entire time.

Morgan looked at the officer. “Is she coming back?”

“Yeah. She just went to get the keys.”

After a few beats of awkward silence… “I’m Derek Morgan, by the way.”

“Crenshaw. Randy Crenshaw.” He tilted his head in the direction the receptionist had gone. “That there’s Ada Mae Billingsley. But don’t let on I told ya. She doesn’t like it when people know her name and she doesn’t know theirs.” Officer Crenshaw rubbed the back of his neck, giving Morgan a rueful grin. “She was my first grade teacher way back when. Still sees me as a kid.” He sighed. “Sees _all_ of us as kids. Kind of hard to deal with sometimes.”

 The increasing volume of muttering presaged the receptionist's return. She gave the officer a scathing look, which Morgan assumed was merely on principle, not for any known infraction. Walking up to the FBI agent, she peered at him over the tops of her glasses again.

“I didn’t introduce myself, ma’a…” Morgan caught himself in time, covering by clearing his throat. “Name’s Derek Morgan.”

“I’m Ada.” She gestured the hand holding an iron ring filled with half-rusted keys toward the officer. “That’s Randy. Little Randy Crenshaw whose nose I used to wipe.”

As the Chief of the Bluefields PD reddened, Morgan realized something. He looked from receptionist to officer and back. Crenshaw looked in his mid-forties…the same age as Hotch.

Morgan narrowed his eyes, wondering if it were possible…

“Officer Crenshaw, you grew up here.” It was more statement than question. Randy nodded. “Did you know anyone named Aaron Hotchner back then?”

The officer took a moment to search his memory.

But Ada was quick to respond.

“Aaron Hotchner? Is that who you’re lookin’ for?” She gave Morgan no chance to answer. “Good Lord. Little Aaron Hotchner. Haven’t thought about him in a ‘coon’s age.” She shook her head. “My, my, my. If you’re lookin’ for that boy, you might be barkin’ up the wrong tree. He’s been gone from Bluefields since he was a rangy-lookin’ teen. Never been back” Her voice softened. “Can’t say as I blame him. Poor, little thing. Taught him his letters once upon a time, but…”

“He’s not the one I’m looking for.” Morgan interrupted what threatened to be a long, unproductive reminiscence. “But he’s a friend of mine.”

“You don’t say.” Ada settled back into her chair, keys firmly in hand. Morgan wondered if the price of obtaining them…and access to the basement they unlocked…would be information on Hotch’s current whereabouts.

He was right.

Ada didn’t like being interrupted. She looked Morgan in the eye with the air of a disciplinarian. But her voice was almost fond when she prompted him… “So you know Aaron Hotchner. What’s he up to these days?”

Morgan was surprised at the boastful quality in his own voice when he responded. “He’s an FBI agent, ma’a…uh,…Miss Ada. One of the best. He’s my friend…and my boss.”

“Well…I’ll be…” Her tone was one of satisfaction. “Good for him.”

“Wow. Aaron Hotchner…Wow…” Officer Crenshaw’s, on the other hand, rang with envy.

 


	74. Places in the Heart

Rossi was dragging when he descended the stairs.

He was glad when Marty put a hand on his back, giving silent, sympathetic support. Sometimes Aaron wasn’t the only one who needed comforting. The doctor guided Dave to the den. It had become a repository of sorts for all the troubling debate and discussion about the reclamation of Aaron. Rossi dropped into the embrace of his favorite chair. Marty stood, looking down on him.

“Didn’t go so well?”

Rossi’s eyes were fastened on the Persian carpet, looking for answers in its richly colored weave. He ran a hand over his beard, mulling over Hotch’s every word and gesture as he reviewed the last hour. “I dunno.” He looked up. “I honestly don’t know. All I  _do_ know is he’s hurting a lot more right now than when he got up this morning.”

“Hell, Dave. That boy’s been hurting all his life. Isn’t that what we’re trying to fix?” Marty took his own seat, insinuating himself into the comfort of buttery, leather upholstery.

“Well….tell me what he said.”

“Nothing really. Just a lot of stammering and that he needed to be alone. And he asked ‘why’…why did it have to happen...” Rossi swallowed despite a mouth gone dry. “But the look in his eyes, Marty…oh, God…the look in his eyes. It’s what his father must have seen whenever he hit him. That uncomprehending, awful endurance…the expectation of pain. God.” Rossi wrapped his arms around himself, fighting a chill that was more in spirit than in body. “He should’ve been angry with me for putting him through that, but…” He shook his head. “…not Aaron. No resentment at all when someone hurts him.”

The doctor studied his friend for a few beats. “Sounds like the reaction I see when I have to tell next-of-kin they’re losing a loved one.”

“What?...The shock?”

“That. And the questioning.” He frowned, thinking of a lifetime spent bearing witness to loss and sorrow. “Sounds like it might be the very beginning of the grieving process.”

“And what exactly would he be grieving? A father who shattered his body and tried to obliterate his spirit? A town that stood by and watched?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of grieving at having to let go of the blankness he’s built into himself to deal with all that. Dave, we said that being hurt, dealing with pain, is what he knows best. So, he’s got the tools to handle whatever he’s feeling right now. But if he faces those new memories honestly…and I have every reason to believe that, as an adult, that’s the _only_ way he knows how to face things…then he’ll have to eventually realize that he’s not the source of  it all. His father was. Aaron’s going to have to rebuild his image of himself.”

Marty had leaned forward, trying to convey his earnest view. Now, he sat back with a sigh. “I think his subconscious already knows what’s happening. He just needs time and space to come to terms with it on a conscious level.”

“And what does his subconscious know?” Rossi wanted to believe this was the start of a beneficial process, but…how could anyone be sure?

“He’s grieving the loss of his own identity. He’s grieving the possibility of losing pain as his Safe Place. I think when the whole picture forms and his adult intellect and training have a chance to examine it, Aaron will see himself differently. But first, as contradictory as it sounds, he’ll have to grieve the loss of seeing himself as ‘broken’…He’ll have to let go of the comfortable, familiar view he’s adopted of seeing himself as different from ‘real’ people.”

Rossi considered the doctor’s theory. “So, _if_ you’re right…he’s grieving the death of the man he always thought himself to be.”

Marty nodded.

Before they could delve any deeper, a small voice intruded from the doorway.

“Poppi?”

Both men came to attention; no longer reclining in their seats, but ramrod straight, wondering how long the boy had been standing within hearing distance; if he’d heard their armchair analysis of his father’s psyche. And if anything they’d said could be understood by a five-year-old.

“Jack? Everything okay?”

The tousled head gave a single shake. The voice was mournful. “Daddy threw up.”

Galvanized, Rossi shot from his chair and sprinted up the stairs, leaving the doctor to take Jack’s hand and follow at a more sedate pace; one more accommodating to extreme youth on the one hand, and advancing age on the other.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

“FBI…wow…” Officer Crenshaw stopped shaking his head in disbelief, subjecting Morgan to a keen stare. “You sure it’s the same Aaron Hotchner? The one who used to live here?”

“Oh, hush-up, Randy.” Ada shot her former grade school student one of her sharpest scalpel-edged glances. It occurred to Morgan that maybe that’s where Hotch had learned the art of glare-intimidation.

“Of course it’s the same Aaron Hotchner. You think that name grows on trees?” She muttered as she turned back to their visitor. “Damn fool…” She toyed with the keys in her hand. “What else can you tell me about little Aaron?”

Morgan shifted his weight from foot to foot, wondering how long this would continue before he was granted access to the basement. “Well, let’s see…He’s not so little. Tallest man on our team. He got married and had a kid. A son. Jack.”

“He a good father?”

“Yes, ma’a….uh, Miss Ada. The best.”

“What’s his wife do?”

Morgan hesitated. He wasn’t here to discuss Hotch’s personal life and he didn’t like doing so in this town that had mistreated him; stood by in pitiless silence while he was battered and bruised. Talking about Hotch was like bringing him here in spirit. But he needed Ada’s goodwill to get those keys. Still, a slow, resentful burn began deep inside him on Hotch’s behalf.

“He’s a widower.”

The receptionist’s inhale was sharp. “Ah. I’d hoped once he left here, his suffering would be done.” The keen eyes misted over. “I guess happily-ever-after only happens in fairy tales.”

“Why didn’t you help him?” Morgan’s slow burn turned out to be a lot closer to the surface than he’d thought. It burst into open flame at the word ‘suffering’…the confirmation that here was someone who’d been well aware of Hotch’s circumstances. “If you knew he was in trouble, why didn’t you do something?”

“If you’re askin’, that means you know some of his past.” Ada slapped her palm against her desktop, the loud report accenting her next words. “But _don’t_ assume you know the whole picture. Don’t judge a time and place you’ve never known, or the people who lived through it.”

She settled back, a disgruntled look lingering. “Startin’ to like you. Don’t go ruinin’ in with ignorant assumptions.”

There was a controlled savagery underlying Morgan’s tone. He hoped she heard it. “Then enlighten me, please. You were his teacher? And you stood by and watched him get hurt?”

“Young man, you come from a different time. There was no such thing as Child Protective Services…or a foster care system…or _any_ kind of Social Services for that matter. Leastways, not ‘round here. What happened in a man’s home was purely his business. And don’t for one minute think the law has anything to do with justice. If you work in law enforcement, you know that.”

Ada’s voice softened. The wrinkles surrounding her eyes deepened. “Truth is, I did what I could without puttin’ my own welfare too far on the line.” She peered up at the man before her. She couldn’t really blame him for the simmering rage she sensed.

“That little boy had a hard time keepin’ body and soul together. I don’t guess he could bring himself to eat much when he was at home. Too much stress for the child.”

Morgan thought of Hotch’s appetite that seemed to diminish in direct proportion to the severity of the cases they worked. It was more than a nervous stomach. _Maybe that’s when it started. Couldn’t keep anything down with Daddy Dearest looming over him._

“I brought him something each day. Even when he wasn’t my student anymore.” Her lips thinned at the remembrance. “But there wasn’t a piece of this town that didn’t have someone in it who wanted to kiss up and garner favor with the rich and mighty Mr. Hotchner. If he liked you, and if you didn’t mind blackening your own soul, and didn’t look in the mirror too close at the end of the day, he could make Bluefields a right nice place to live for his supporters, his obedient lackeys.

“I found that out the hard way.” Her fingers picked at the rusted keys, loosening flakes of reddish-brown that drifted to her desktop. “Someone…to this day I don’t rightly know who…let on to him that I was feedin’ his son. Next thing I know, I’m called up a-fore the school board. Charged with _inappropriate behavior_ toward a student, don’tcha know.”

Morgan was mortified to see tears gathering in the old woman’s eyes. “Lost my position. Had to take on work cleanin’ houses. Lord God, I missed those children, my students. Especially little Aaron. Worried about him every day.”

She wiped at her eyes, clearly impatient with her own sentimentality. “Didn’t get back to teachin’ until they put Hotchner in his grave. But by then little Aaron wasn’t so little anymore; wasn’t in the same school. And I lost track of him.” She fixed Morgan with the twin of the laser-glare she’d inflicted on Officer Crenshaw.

“You go back to your friend and you tell him his teacher, Miss Billingsley, still says a prayer for him every night…has done for thirty-some years.”

She pushed the keys toward him. Morgan took them, but let his fingers linger over hers a few seconds longer than necessary.

He hoped she’d interpret it as he intended: an apology.

And recognition that they both had a special place in their hearts for Aaron Hotchner.


	75. Hidden Deep

Morgan picked up the ring of keys, wondering which one he’d need. He was about to ask when something else occurred to him. “Miss Ada, when I mentioned Hotch…uh,…Aaron Hotchner…you said you hadn’t thought about him for years… ‘a coon’s age.’ But, that wasn’t true, was it?”

The ex-teacher straightened her spine to formidable rigidity. “Well, excuse me, young man, if I don’t choose to tell a total stranger the content of my nightly prayers.” She picked up her magazine, one hand making shooing motions in Morgan’s direction.

“Now take those keys and that damn fool Police Chief, and go look for…whoever.” Turning pages, she gave every appearance of having dismissed the entire matter of Aaron Hotchner. But Morgan noticed her eyes weren’t tracking. It was all for show. She was still in the past, seeing a small, dark-haired boy, starved in body and spirit.

“Thank you.” He started to turn away, but thought better of it. “Can I ask you one more thing, Miss Ada?”

A long-suffering sigh, an indication of saintly patience was her only response.

“Did you know a woman back then, when Hotchner had this place under his thumb…a black woman called Felicia?”

“Felicia…Felicia…” She tasted the name, rolling it around on her tongue. “No. Can’t say as that rings any bells with me.” She glanced over her shoulder, voice taking on the crack-and-snap of a classroom dictator. “Randy! You have anything rattlin’ around that empty space between your ears that perks up to the name Felicia?”

“No, Miz Billingsley. Sorry.”

“Didn’t think so.” Ada hunched over her magazine. “Now, take Mr. Morgan to the basement and help him find what he wants.” Her tone made Derek think she didn’t have much confidence in her ex-student being able to accomplish either task…at least, not to her high standards.

 

xxxxxx

 

Rossi found Hotch in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub. Leaning over, elbows braced on knees. White-faced and sweating.

“H-e-y...” He took a seat beside him, putting a world of sympathy into one word.

The glance Hotch gave him was puzzled as well as miserable. “I think I scared Jack.”

“He’s more worried than scared. He’ll be fine.” Rossi risked putting a hand on Hotch’s back, unsure of what kind of comfort was called for in this situation…or what the situation was exactly. “What’s going on, Aaron?”

He sniffed, shaking his head. “I don’t know. We were just lying there, and I was thinking how lucky I am to have Jack. And then…I dunno.” He gave Rossi a sidelong look. “Barely made it to the bathroom, it came on so suddenly.”

Rossi frowned, brushing some hair back from the younger man’s forehead. “Well, so much for finally eating a proper breakfast, huh?”

Hotch managed a sickly grin. “Sorry. Food’s kind of wasted on me.”

“Shhhhh…don’t tell Garcia.” When his friend managed a weak chuckle, Rossi felt encouraged. “You done? Wanna go back to bed, or do you think there might be an encore waiting in the wings?”

“I’m good.”

Secretly, Rossi was relieved he hadn’t said ‘I’m okay.’ Before he could investigate just how ‘good’ Hotch was, Marty’s voice intruded from the bathroom doorway.

“I’ll help him back to bed when he’s ready. Need to check him over anyway.” The doctor smiled down at Jack, standing by his side, hand in hand; watching Daddy with eyes that missed nothing. “Dave, I think Jack’s well enough to go on a little outing. It’d help me out if you’d go pick up another couple bottles of hand sanitizer. Still need to polish off some of those leopard spots.”

Jack looked a little abashed, recalling the misappropriation of Poppi’s Sharpies.

Rossi read the subtext: _Give me some time alone with him._

“Sure. Sure.” He stood, offering his hand to Hotch’s son. “C’mon, Jack. Let’s go on a hunting-and-gathering expedition.”

The child looked at Hotch, a tacit request for approval. The Leopard Chief nodded, raising one paw in the Leopard Salute, claws flexed. “Go, my cub. Be brave. Hunt with success.” The voice didn’t have the full-throated strength it normally would, but it was enough to bring a smile back to Jack’s face.

He went to Daddy’s side to hug him goodbye.

Marty took the opportunity to whisper an aside to Rossi. “I think it’s emotional, but I’ll look him over to be sure. Maybe you could pick up something bland, like crackers or anything with ginger in it? Boy’s stomach’s more sensitive than I thought.”

Rossi nodded. “We’ll take our time. Maybe stop and get some more leopard supplies, too…the kind that wash off.”

Outing approved, Jack and his Poppi left the Leopard Chief under Marty’s supervision.

 

xxxxxx

 

Randy walked past Morgan, giving his disgruntled receptionist a sheepish look in passing.

“C’mon. Basement’s this-a-way.”

Morgan extended the ring of keys toward the officer. “You’d know better which one’s the right one. It’d take me all day to go through these.”

The response came with a shrug. “Doesn’t matter. They all work.”

Morgan looked at the iron ring and its rusty burden, a perplexed frown accompanying him as he followed Randy out the front door of the police station. Morgan’s frown deepened when the Police Chief shoved his hands in his pockets and, giving his guest a nod, indicating he should follow, strode down the cracked, buckling cement that passed for a sidewalk.

He hastened to catch up. Coming abreast, Morgan matched his pace to the officer’s.

“Where’re we going?”

“Basement.”

Morgan glanced back at the police station. When they’d stepped outside, he’d assumed the basement door would be adjacent to the building; something along the lines of the heavy wooden type set into the ground and leading to an old-fashioned root cellar. Randy glanced at him, smiling at the agent’s puzzled expression.

“We keep the records no one wants anymore down in old man Larchmont’s basement.” The smile widened to a grin. “Place is deserted. He’s passed on, but when he was alive…” The officer shook his head. “…he was a crazy old coot. One of them, whatcha call its? _Doomsday_ guys. Yeah, that’s what he was. A _doomsday_ guy.”

Morgan noted the neglected dilapidation of many of the structures they were passing. _If this is the state of things along Main Street, Garcia’s vision of mold and decay might be accurate for boxes left in a house that’s been vacant for God alone knows how long._

Almost as though he knew the thoughts running through Morgan’s mind, Randy laughed. “Don’t worry. The old guy was sure we’d all be blown to bits by random, nuclear bombs…you know… ‘cause Bluefields is such a prime target, right?” He scuffed at a weed growing up through a crack in the pavement, pondering his hometown’s lack of importance as a military target.

“He built an underground shelter. Reinforced, steel walls. Generator. Climate control. Stocked it with enough supplies for weeks.”

Randy nodded toward the iron ring of keys clanking in time to Morgan’s steps. “Gave a key to everyone he thought worth savin’. Became kind of a joke. Bluefields’ own little Key Club. When Loco Larchmont passed, he left his home to the town, thinkin’ he was gonna save us even if he wasn’t with us. Anyway…” He stopped before a rundown two-story house surrounded by the remnants of a picket fence. “…Town Council decided it’d be a good storage facility. This’s it. ‘Round back’s the basement door.”

Morgan followed the Police Chief. When they turned the corner into the back yard, the agent stopped short. Amidst all the detritus of neglect that vacant lots in general seemed to attract, a door was set into the ground, glinting dully in the sunlight.

“Inside’s all steel. Don’t know why he chose to do the door in iron.” Randy shrugged. “Don’t know why he did any of this, really.” He nodded at the large lock in the center of the door that made Morgan think of medieval dungeons. “Open her up.”

Bending, Morgan picked a key at random. Despite the rust, it turned easily enough when fitted into the lock. With the officer’s help, he threw open the doors. Randy took the lead going in. When he threw a switch and the interior of old man Larchmont’s bunker was illuminated, Morgan took a speechless moment to get his bearings.

Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, ranks of shelving had been installed. Every shelf was packed with plastic, lidded storage boxes.

For a surreal moment Morgan felt as though he were inside Rossi’s refrigerator, surrounded by Garcia’s Tupperware.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Marty took the place Rossi had vacated at Hotch’s side.

“No rush, son. When you’re ready, we’ll get you back to bed. In the meantime, I’ll just keep you company.”

With Jack gone, Hotch didn’t feel the need to keep up any pretenses. Heaving a deep sigh, he let himself slump forward over his knees. “I guess maybe that flu or measles, or whatever, still has a hold on me.”

The doctor let a few beats of silence intervene before saying what he hoped would push Hotch in the right direction. “I don’t think that’s it…do you?”

Only Hotch’s slightly ragged breathing punctuated the quiet. Finally, after long consideration, he shook his head.

“No.” The voice was distant, as were the eyes.

Marty leaned over, mirroring Hotch’s posture. “I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again, Aaron….Anything you tell me, if you say to…I’ll keep in confidence. Even from Dave.”

Hotch closed his eyes, nodding. But it took some more time before he spoke. The doctor couldn’t tell if his hesitation came from an inability to find adequate words, or reluctance to claim ownership of whatever those words would reveal.

“I’m remembering things, Marty.” He shot a glance at the doctor, testing the waters before plunging any deeper. “Just flashes and stuff, but…”

The doctor shifted, putting an arm around Hotch’s shoulders, squeezing a light hug. “You knew you were an abused child, Aaron. What’s hitting you the hardest about the memories? Can you put your finger on any one incident?”

Hotch gave a convulsive swallow, wondering if he was going to submit to nausea again. Breathing helped. He took several deep ones.

“It’s not that. It’s…” He straightened, girding himself. “They sent me to boarding school about a year after my father died.”

“I know. Dave mentioned it at one point.” Marty didn’t want to influence whatever Hotch had to say, but he wanted to make it easier, if possible.

Hotch licked his lips. “I don’t think it was a boarding school.”

The doctor kept quiet.

“I think it was a different kind of place.”

Marty tightened his one-armed hug, giving support and permission for whatever Hotch needed to get out.

“I…I think they institutionalized me.” Dark, sad eyes turned on the doctor. “I’m starting to remember…and…I’m almost sure. They institutionalized me, Marty. When I was eighteen or nineteen…they sent me away. To an institution. For kids with...problems. For kids who were, you know…broken.”


	76. Searching

Marty didn’t know what to say.

Clearly Hotch was watching him for a reaction. No matter what anyone said, being institutionalized carried a stigma. And the doctor wasn’t sure about FBI screening and requirements, but something told him they wouldn’t hire people with backgrounds that included mental or emotional disabilities of that order. Even if they were in the past.

But he wasn’t sure.

Dave would know. But Aaron hadn’t said yet whether or not he was willing to share this part of his childhood with anyone else…even his best friend. Aaron would know, too. But Marty didn’t want to leap into a worst-case scenario with a man who needed calming reassurance more than anything at the moment.

The doctor reminded himself of his personal credo: _The one thing that must **never** be taken from a patient, is hope. **NO** one may take that away._

 _And that especially applies to the physician_ , he reminded himself. _Don’t jump to a diagnosis without proper investigation of the symptoms. Same thing goes here. Hell, even Aaron’s not a hundred percent sure of what happened to him._

Hotch was waiting, dark eyes begging for a response.

Marty’s mind raced. And he thought he hit on the requisite, hopeful note.

“Aaron, FBI background checks are pretty rigorous, aren’t they?” The only response was a slight nod. “Don’t you think, if you’d been committed to an institution at any time, that would’ve come to light?”

Something terrible lurked in the depths of Hotch’s eyes. “Yeah. But they’ve missed other things. One of my team had a police record that didn’t come up. It was expunged, but the fact that such a file existed still would’ve come up and would’ve been a factor in his being hired.” Anxiety made him swallow. “They missed that. What if they missed this?”

_So much for my first stab at reviving hope…_

“Let’s not get started on the ‘what if’ game, Aaron.” Marty retreated to the position that gave _him_ the most control, and therefore, the most comfort. “I’m your doctor and I need to check you over. Then, we’ll talk.” He stood, slipping a supportive hand under Hotch’s elbow, helping him rise; knowing he was using physical examination as an excuse, as a way to buy time while he tried to figure out in what kind of maze adolescent Aaron had been trapped.

And if it would now spill over into adult Aaron’s life.

And maybe ruin that carefully constructed life.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan turned in a slow circle, taking in the pristine condition of the bunker/basement, as well as the number of boxes confronting his search. The sheer amount of information buried in this odd, official PD burrow was daunting.

The Police Chief’s wry chuckle broke the spell.

“‘S somethin’, ain’t it?” His eyes roved over the packed shelves. “If they ever do drop an A-bomb on Bluefields, might wipe out every citizen, but these little babies…” He gave the nearest box an affectionate slap. “…they’ll survive just fine. Yep. Makes it easier to sleep at night, knowing Joe Public’s traffic citation will still be here, waitin…waitin’ for…whatever…” His voice faded, swallowed by rank upon rank of records, the bits and pieces of Bluefields’ past.

Morgan set the keys down on a small table set against one wall. “So, is there any organization here? Any way I can find a specific year? Month? Day? Anything?”

“Kinda.” Randy walked to the far end of the room. Hands in pockets, he gazed down one aisle. “This here’s the 1940s.” He nodded toward Morgan. “Gets more recent headed your way. Up against the wall past you, it ends in the early 1990s. Rest, we put online. Didn’t see the point with all this, though.”

Morgan took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “Okay. I guess I’ll get to work.”

“Ada said to help you.” The Police Chief sounded almost amused. Almost. “If I go back there now, she’ll know I didn’t. So…Tell me what you need.”

“Everything around Thanksgiving of 1975. Anything with the name Felicia…or Bledsoe…or even Hotchner.”

“Got it.”

The two men began pulling boxes, searching for the correct year and month as a starting point.

 

xxxxxx

 

“Deep breath, Aaron…In…Out…Slowly…Again…”

Marty already knew Hotch’s lungs were clear. He wasn’t interested in whatever the stethoscope pressed against the man’s chest picked up at this point. What he really wanted was to relax his patient as much as possible. He studied the taut muscles and drawn features…and continued to oversee Hotch’s breathing.

“Once more…In…Out…Again…”

Finally, there was a particularly deep, cleansing exhalation. Some of the tension eased in the clenched jaw. It was a start.

The doctor changed tactics. Sitting on the bed, he retrieved the cloth and almost-empty bottle of sanitizer. “Just keep breathing. I’m gonna see if I can’t make a little more headway on removing your Leopard Chief official insignia while we talk.” Hotch’s lips quirked upward just a fraction.

 _Good._ It was another step toward putting things in perspective.

He lifted the hem of Hotch’s t-shirt. Applying a film of sanitizer to the small square of fabric, he watched the agent’s face as he massaged his stomach, keeping his touch light in deference to the recent bout of nausea.

Again, he didn’t care about erasing indelible ink spots; relaxation was the prime objective.

When, at long last, he felt some of the rigidity beneath his hand soften, he felt encouraged to begin the necessary discussion.

“So…Aaron…the way I see it, some decisions need to be made. First, before Dave gets back, do you want me to maintain confidentiality?”

“No.” Hotch breathed the answer out on a sigh filled with trepidation.

But Marty’s own sigh that followed was one of relief. He believed the more secrets between two people, the less likely they would be able to maintain any meaningful friendship. _Just too much energy goes into the wariness necessary to keep the secrets inviolate._ He really didn’t want to see that kind of barrier begin to form between Dave and Aaron.

“Good. I agree.” He continued the slow, circular movements against Hotch’s stomach. “The second thing that we need to do, is to explore your suspicions…And they _are_ just suspicions at this point, Aaron…that you’ve been institutionalized.”

Hotch’s eyes had been closed, trying to eke out as much comfort as possible from the light massage. Now, they opened. Marty could see the man’s desire to accept that this could all be a huge misinterpretation. He hastened to build on the slim hope.

“You’re working through trauma and recovered memories. Neither are conducive to accuracy. We need to verify what happened to you. The when and the where of it. Until then, in my mind anyway, the whole thing is as insubstantial as one of your dreams.”

Hotch swallowed. Some of his dreams seemed pretty solid. After all, one of them had been his first inkling of Felicia’s existence…the one where someone had been holding him in such complete, safe warmth.

He closed his eyes again.

He’d give almost anything to feel that way now.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan would have been content to explore the files in silence. Or alone.

But Ada had given the Police Chief his orders and he was determined not to aggravate the already irascible receptionist beyond what seemed to be her natural state.

After half an hour, they’d determined the location of records from the 1970s. Morgan gave a sigh of resignation when he realized that the organization ended there. The boxes didn’t seem to stick to any order or sequence when it came to their contents.

And Officer Crenshaw was the type who preferred small talk to quiet, industrious labor.

“So….Aaron Hotchner’s an FBI agent? And your boss?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wow….That’s somethin’.”

“Mmmmm...”

“Never would’ve thought…no Sirree…little Hayseed Hotchner makin’ somethin’ of himself.”

Morgan frowned, his fingers hesitating for an instant in their task. “‘Hayseed?’ Where’d that come from?” Back in the office he’d detected envy and a little awe in Randy’s attitude toward Hotch. But now his profiler’s radar was picking up resentment. Maybe even a little hostility born of jealousy. _And maybe he was just covering it up before because Ada so clearly cared about Hotch._

“Nothin’. Just I remember him is all.”

A few beats passed.

“Son of the richest man in town and he’d show up at school with straw stickin’ out of his hair.”

Morgan continued perusing files, but had the distinct feeling he was being baited; that Randy wanted to tell him something that would lessen Hotch in his estimation; drag him down closer to the level of a small town officer who took orders from his receptionist. Morgan thought he could also be looking for complicity; trying to send signals that it was alright if the agent wanted to join in and trash his boss.

If any of it were true, Morgan knew he didn’t have to say a word. Randy wouldn’t be able to hold his tongue.

“Yep. Lived in that big mansion over on Sorghum Street and for some reason would spend his nights in people’s barns. Come to class the next day lookin’ like a cow’d licked his hair up and left half her mornin’ hay in it.”

Shaking his head in remembrance, he gave an almost fond chuckle. “Clumsy as all get out, too. Kid couldn’t go a day without trippin’ into something’ or fallin’ over his own feet. Had bruises from top to bottom, he did.”

Morgan’s voice was tight, but controlled. “Didn’t you hear what Ada said about how he was abused?”

Randy shrugged. “Don’t know that I believe it all. Hayseed was kind of creepy to have around, you know? Those eyes starin’…watchin’ everything.” He gave an overly dramatic shudder. “If I was Old Man Hotchner, I might’ve had a hard time takin’ it, too.”

Morgan felt the slow burn on Hotch’s behalf starting up again.

“You have any kids of your own, Officer?”

“No.”

“Good. Hope you never do.”

The record search was completed in silence.

 


	77. Broken Open

Rossi and Jack returned to a mansion that felt very still inside.

For a moment, Dave felt a frisson of alarm. He longed to race up the stairs to check on Hotch and Marty, but he resisted the impulse. His first responsibility was to Hotch’s son. So, Rossi held himself in check while they unpacked the spoils of their ‘hunt’: crackers, sanitizer, more ginger ale, gingersnap cookies, and a new supply of washable markers…heavy on the raspberry-hued colors. When Mudgie and Fudge ambled past, tails waving in companionable concert, headed for the living room, it was as though they were signaling reassurance that nothing too dire was waiting in the wings. Mudge looked over his shoulder with a glint in his eye, beckoning an invitation.

Rossi grabbed the opportunity the dogs offered.

Jack wanted to show Daddy the new markers…which also included a particularly fluorescent orange the cub was sure his Chief would admire…but he agreed to delay the demonstration in exchange for cookies and milk in the company of canines.

Leaving the boy occupied with some wildlife picture books, unaware that they would open whole new vistas into how Daddy’s skin could be decorated, Rossi headed upstairs, crackers and sanitizer in hand.

He made plenty of noise as he approached; the last thing he wanted to do was startle someone like Hotch whose stomach had already demonstrated a predilection for jumpiness.

He pushed open the bedroom door with one shoulder to find himself the subject of grave regard. The doctor’s and Hotch’s eyes were trained on him with expressions that warned him to brace himself. He did the best he could without knowing what awaited.

“Aaron, how’re you feeling?” Rossi didn’t wait for empty assurances; he turned to Marty instead. “How’s he doing?”

The doctor rubbed a hand over his eyes, sighing. Not a good sign in Dave’s opinion. “Well, I think Aaron has something he’d like to tell you.” He rested a hand on his patient’s shoulder in silent support. “Aaron?”

Hotch couldn’t help it. He licked his lips. His throat gave a convulsive swallow. His eyes darted away and back. He knew Dave was reading each and every ‘tell,’ and becoming more concerned by the moment as the physical manifestations of inner turmoil piled on top of each other.

“Aaron?” This time it was Rossi turning his name into a question. The older man shook his head and sighed. “I’ve told you before: there’s nothing in your past or in your heart or soul that will change how I feel about you. You can tell me anything, Aaron. Anything.”

“Okay. Here goes.” Hotch felt Marty’s hand tighten on his shoulder for a moment. “You remember when I told you I was kind of a screw-up and got sent off to boarding school?”

“Sure. And you got your act together. That was a long time ago, Aaron.”

“Well…I think…” He glanced up at the doctor; felt the extra pressure on his shoulder encouraging him to continue. “The thing is, Dave. I’m remembering stuff, and I don’t think it was so much that I was a screw-up as I… _was_ …screwed up.”

Rossi looked from face to face, trying to decipher whatever deep ,dark secret he sensed looming in the background. “Aaron, considering what you went through growing up, I’d be surprised if it _hadn’t_ left a mark on you.”

Hotch cleared his throat, pulling himself a little straighter. “Dave, what I’m trying to say is…it wasn’t a boarding school. I think it was someplace for kids who were really messed up…mentally…emotionally.” He took a deep breath. “I think it was more of an institution than a school. Maybe.”

When Rossi’s response was a blank look, Hotch couldn’t tell if it was a reaction to realizing the implications of his admission, or failure to grasp it.

“Dave, I think I was institutionalized. Put away. You know…because I was…ill.” He looked down, fidgeting with the bedclothes. “You know… _mentally_ ill…” His voice grew softer, speaking the words for himself, for his own confirmation of what he’d always suspected, always feared.

“Not like other people…broken…inside…”

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Morgan stared at the file spread before him and felt a small thrill of accomplishment.

This was what he’d been hoping to find. It wasn’t much, but it was one hundred percent more than he’d had when he started.

It was the official report of Felicia’s arrest. With Felicia’s last name and Bluefields address.

It almost made it worth having to put up with the silent resentment he felt emanating from the Police Chief.

When it had become clear that Morgan wasn’t interested in denigrating Hotch, Randy had retreated to a corner with a box of files, sulking. Morgan had been thinking that he’d have to look through everything the man claimed to have searched a second time. He didn’t trust him to be doing anything more than going through the motions. But his irritating presence was a goad, spurring Morgan on. The FBI agent preferred to spend as little time as necessary with this man who reminded him of a schoolyard bully.

_Has the emotional IQ of a twelve year old. If this is their Police Chief, I’d hate to see what the deputies are like._

With a grunt of satisfaction, Morgan extracted the sheet of contact information from Felicia’s file. He pulled out his phone, thumbing in the number for Garcia…and realized there was no signal in the steel-walled, underground shelter.

“Damn.”

“Problem?” Randy was bored pretending to help. He hoped something more interesting might be happening.

“No signal.” Morgan pocketed his phone. Picking up the file, he started for the ladder-like steps leading to the outside.

“Hey, you can’t take stuff out of here. It’s official police business. Has to stay here.”

Morgan didn’t even slow down, although he did admit to himself that there was some technical merit to what the Police Chief was saying. In the end, this wasn’t his town and he wasn’t here in an official capacity. It would have been easy to pull rank, but he felt he was representing Hotch in this God-forsaken burg, and he knew that no matter the provocation, his boss would expect him to behave professionally.

So, Morgan gritted down on his dislike and turned toward Officer Crenshaw, brandishing the file. “I’d appreciate being able to make a copy of this. Think I can do that at your headquarters?”

The officer shrugged, unable to find a solid reason for objection. “Yeah. Sure. Just ask Ada to help you. Machine’s kinda ornery sometimes.”

Morgan sensed a contriteness in the man now that it looked as though his afternoon with an FBI agent was about to come to a close. He wondered if he’d invent stories about it with which to entertain his staff, boosting his own image in the process. But as Morgan looked at him, putting boxes back on the shelves in a desultory manner, he decided Randy probably didn’t have the imagination to do so.

Derek headed for the exit once more. “Thanks for your help, Chief.”

“That what you call Aaron? ‘Cause he’s your boss?” There was something so plaintive in the question, it arrested Morgan’s steps. “You call him ‘Chief?’”

Morgan took a long look at the man, seeing someone without hope of bettering himself or his situation. Partly because of environment, but mostly due to his own lack of motivation and ability. He almost felt sorry for him.

“No. I call him ‘Hotch.’”

“Why?”

“‘Cause he’s not the type who needs to remind people of his rank. I respect him because of who he is on the inside; not the badge he wears on the outside. And I call him ‘Hotch’ because he’s my friend.”

Morgan left Randy to tidy up and lock up. His SUV was parked at the police station. He planned to make a copy of the file there and then go in search of Felicia’s old neighborhood. He tried calling Garcia again as he walked.

“Baby Girl! Got a name for you. Look _everywhere_ for Davenport. Felicia Davenport.”

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Rossi’s inner reaction to Hotch’s revelation that institutionalization might be part of his past, was much the same as Marty’s.

His mind raced, while his heart ached for the toll this confession was taking on his friend.

 _We’ve been so glib about telling each other that Hotch needed to stop hiding, needed to be more open. And look at him now. Open and, in his words, ‘broken.’ Open and broken. That’s what we’ve done to him. We broke him open_.

Rossi took a careful seat on the side of the bed opposite Marty; both of the older men looking down at a Hotch who seemed to be sinking in on himself, head bent, eyes averted. Rossi reached out, smoothing one of a trio of cowlicks. It seemed Hotch’s hair was as alarmed at the news as any of them.

“You’re upset, Aaron. Understandably so. We need to look into this more, but just to get you through the next few minutes or hours or to the other side of midnight, I want to remind you again: nothing has really changed in the world around you. Nothing’s changed at work. Your job and your team are still waiting for you. Nothing’s changed for Jack or _any_ of the people who love you.

“Even you haven’t _really_ changed. Your outlook has. You’re becoming more self-aware. It hurts. And for that, I apologize. But the man you are, the basic, soul-deep character you possess? That hasn’t changed at all.” He could tell words intended for comfort were being met with skepticism.

He watched the cowlick slowly rising back to its original, upright position…like a defiant exclamation point. Before Rossi could think what else might defuse the situation, his phone chimed. Eyes still on Hotch, he pulled it out, giving the caller ID a quick glance.

“It’s Morgan. He’s in your hometown, looking into whatever happened to Felicia.”

Hotch’s eyes were wide as he finally looked up. “Bluefields? You sent him to Bluefields?”

Rossi had the distinct impression that this much hands-on activity hadn’t figured into Hotch’s definition of ‘searching for Felicia’ when he’d given permission to do so. But it was too late to change what was already done. He only hoped in the end Hotch would think it was all worth whatever emotional price was exacted from him. He connected the call.

“Tell me something good, Morgan.”

Both Marty and Hotch saw the delighted smile announcing welcome news.

“Derek, can you hold on for a minute?...Thanks.” Rossi muted the call, studying Hotch. “Aaron, Felicia’s last name was Davenport. Does that ring any bells?”

The Unit Chief’s eyes dropped, scanning memories for any additional shred of information the name might provoke. He shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think I ever knew her last name. She was just ‘Felicia.’ Sorry.”

“That’s okay. Morgan found a surname and an old address. It’s something more to go on anyway.” Rossi ran a hand over his beard, letting it linger as thoughts took form. “Aaron, do you remember where you were sent? When you thought you were going to boarding school?”

After a few moments of looking distant, Hotch’s head gave a slow, regretful shake.

“Well, what makes you think it was some sort of institution?”

“I’m not sure.” He closed his eyes, letting an inner landscape take form. “I guess the things that happened there. The people I can see…just flashes, but…they weren’t teachers. More like counselors.” He looked up, scanning from Rossi to Marty and back. His voice was tinged with misery. “I don’t know. But it wasn’t a regular school. There weren’t classes. Or students. I’m sorry.”

Rossi chewed on his bottom lip, considering the advisability of what he was about to propose. “The next thing we need to do is find out what happened to you. Find out where you were sent, and why.”

Hotch blinked. Marty had said the same thing.

“Aaron, as long as Morgan’s there, would you give the go-ahead for him to look for any records about _you_? If there’s anything that’ll help, I have a feeling that’s the place to begin.”

Silence. Brown eyes staring, filled with shadowed horror.

“I’d set Garcia on it, but Morgan already knows more about you than the others. And he knows how important discretion is. And he…he understands this kind of situation.”

Rossi didn’t need to elaborate.

Having glossed over his own past in deference to progressing in his career, Morgan knew the stakes. Hotch could lose his job, his reputation…things that defined him as a man. Things that were a large part of what made his life worthwhile.

Hotch felt his stomach do that peculiar, sickening, rolling motion again. He closed his eyes…took a deep breath…and nodded.

_I have to know. And I can’t do it alone. And I don’t ever want to go back to Bluefields. And that’s where the answers are…I just know it. That’s where it all began…_

 

 


	78. Proof

Morgan folded the copy of Felicia Davenport’s arrest record and tucked it into his jacket’s inside pocket.

He stood, arms braced against the outdated Xerox machine, thinking. Rossi had just given him an earful. And his brain was still trying to wrap itself around the enormity of what the older agent had shared. It was times like this that Morgan regretted the degree to which he’d honed the skills that allowed him to empathize. They made him a better profiler, but they also came into play when his friends were in pain. And right now, Hotch’s emotional wounds made him wince.

He needed a moment to regroup. He needed to compartmentalize.

The search had become two-pronged. Morgan knew Garcia was the best bet for finding Felicia now that they had a surname, but he still wanted to nose around the woman’s old neighborhood. Thirty years was a long time, yet a town like Bluefields might still harbor some old-timers who could provide leads; people who didn’t have the means or the motivation to move away. He could imagine someone in Felicia’s circumstances being too poor to relocate…and eventually losing the energy and the will to do so as the town leached the spirit out of its less fortunate residents. After all, Ada had remembered Hotch. Maybe there was someone who’d recall a big-hearted lady with a soft spot for stray cats and lost boys. And very little tolerance for abusive bullies.

Whatever Garcia found would be official data…the skeleton of the matter. Morgan wanted to flesh out that picture. He sensed it might be important to Hotch to know something more personal.

But now a second wrinkle had been added to his mission: delving into the very private, potentially destructive past of Hotch himself. As much as he trusted Garcia, Morgan would not let the details of this additional quest out of his possession. This investigation was on him. He would be the sole researcher. What questions he asked would have to be handled with the utmost discretion and diplomacy. He was used to guarding his boss’ physical body. Now, he’d protect his past with the same dogged determination.

Slightly preoccupied, Morgan walked out to the front bullpen of the Bluefields PD. He stopped at Ada’s desk, placing the original file concerning Felicia beside her Better Homes magazine that he now noticed was three years out of date.

“You find what you were lookin’ for?” The receptionist’s keen-eyed regard and sharp voice halted Morgan, bringing him out of his reverie. “That fool Randy any help at all?”

“I did find what I wanted. Thank you, Miss Ada.” He refrained from rendering his opinion of the Police Chief. With a second, rather undefined quest in the offing, it wasn’t wise to burn any bridges he might need down the road. Besides, Officer Crenshaw was his own worst punishment. Anything Morgan might add to his woes would pale in comparison to the life the man had built for himself.

 _Allowed to form around himself is more like it_ , thought Morgan _. Building something would require effort and planning; attributes that guy lost a long time ago, if he ever had them in the first place._

But, ex-teacher that she was, Ada was alert to evasions. She shook her head in disgust.

“Knew it. Knew that imbecile wouldn’t hold up his end.” She sighed out her disappointment. “Never did find the key that would’ve made Randy pull up his drawers and make somethin’ of himself. Nope…never did find it…” A faint smile tweaked the corners of her mouth. “Now Aaron…that one had everything goin’ against him, but he still managed to excel. Once he got his feet under him, anyway.”

His new mission in mind, Morgan was on the lookout for any openings that might provide leads. “Miss Ada, what more can you tell me about Hotc…uh…Aaron? Anything else stand out about him besides his problems at home? Anyone else try to help him?”

A long pause ensued as Hotch’s old teacher looked back in time, traveling down a corridor with countless doors leading off of it; countless students and families. The look on Ada’s face was tired, and sad, and showed every one of her years when she finally spoke.

“Aaron was a smart little thing. Guess he had to be to survive.” Her voice was distant. “Solemn. Never did see him smile or laugh the way other children did. But he didn’t have much cause, did he?…” She shook her head. “All that boy wanted was to be loved, and his Daddy made it nearly impossible for anyone to give him that. Kinda makes you wonder what his father’s life was like as a child. ‘Course, that’s no excuse for what he did to little Aaron.”

She glanced up, giving Morgan a wry smile. “Or _not_ so little Aaron anymore, accordin’ to you. It’s good to know he turned out alright. For a while there, word was that he wouldn’t. But…by then I’d lost touch with him and I never did have any truck with rumors and gossip….But it’s good to know he’s done well for himself.”

Morgan nodded. “Not just himself. He’s done well for a lot of people. Saved lives, helped put broken ones back together when he could. He’s a good man. You’d be proud of him.” He studied his own feet for a moment, debating pursuing Ada’s remark about gossip. _But I’m only here for a short time, and this is the place where Hotch’s troubles began. I have to ask…_

“I never liked gossip myself, Miss Ada. But I want to understand everything my friend had to battle to get where he is today. What kind of rumors were you talking about?”

Morgan was getting used to the woman’s sharp eyes, but when they turned hard enough to put him in mind of Prentiss taking down a particularly heinous unsub, he faltered.

“I…uh…”

She squinted at him. “You know, young man, you never did show me any proof that you’re who you say you are.”

“Sorry…sorry…” Morgan fumbled in his pocket, pulling out his badge and opening it, holding it at the receptionist’s eye level.

“Hmmphf. So you’re FBI. Doesn’t make you Aaron’s friend, which is a job I’d respect more than being some kind of government agent.” She scrutinized Morgan’s carefully blank expression. “You got any pictures of him? Any proof he’s special to you?”

“I…uh…no. I don’t carry pictures with me, ma’a…uh, Miss Ada.” His brows rose as a possible solution occurred to him. Pulling out his phone, he punched in a number. “Garcia!”

“What’s up, Butter Pecan Sweetness? How’s it going in Hicksville?”

He was glad he hadn’t put her on speaker.

“Do you have any pictures of Hotch you can send me?” He lowered his voice and turned slightly away. “… Preferably smiling?” Morgan had the idea that being able to provide the image of a happy Hotch might be considered verification of his claim to be the man’s friend.

“Smiling?! I…I don’t…” The tech analyst’s mind was speeding, trying to recall if such a rarity had ever been caught on camera. “Wait! Yes! I’ve got his badge photo on file. I can send it to you in…three…two…one…done!” Request satisfied, her voice dripped with curiosity. “What’s going on? Why do you need a…”

“Can’t talk now, Baby Girl. But…thanks…Bigtime…” He closed the call and brought up Hotch’s badge photo: a headshot sporting an uncharacteristic, but still genuine, wide, white smile. Holding it down where the receptionist could see it, he flashed his own triumphant grin.

Ada leaned forward, adjusting her glasses. Taking her time, she peered at the image from different angles. At last, just as Morgan was beginning to despair of her recognizing someone she’d only known as a small boy, the hard look left her, replaced by a fond expression.

“Yes. That’s him. Didn’t know if I’d be able to tell, but…that’s him. Those’re the eyes. Same coloring, too. My, my, my…Little Aaron Hotchner…all grown up into a fine looking man.”

Morgan was congratulating himself on edging further into Miss Ada’s good graces when she straightened, subjecting him to another stern look. “But that doesn’t prove you’re his friend. If I show you a picture of the President, that gonna make you think I’m his friend?” She gave a disapproving sniff. “Startin’ to think you might have more in common with that bricks-for-brains Randy than I first thought.”

What Morgan did next probably stemmed from the fact that he already had his phone in hand. Giving the elderly ex-teacher a frustrated scowl, he punched in another number.

“Rossi? Is Hotch up for a phone call? I’ve got someone here who’d like to talk to him. Wants to be sure I’m legit, and this might be the only way to do it. So….can you ask him if he’ll take a call from his first grade teacher? Miss Billingsley?”

Morgan licked his lips, wondering how well this blast from the past would sit with his Unit Chief.

 

xxxxxxx

 

 After giving permission for Morgan to delve into what was arguably the most sensitive part of his past, Hotch didn’t feel like facing anything or anyone else.

He curled onto his side, presenting his back to the others. Pulling a pillow down, he hugged it close, burying his face from view, taking refuge. Rossi and Marty watched, exchanging concerned glances. It was the action of someone who felt exposed and vulnerable and scared.

It brought to mind the child Hotch had been who was damaged so cruelly.

Rossi leaned in, smoothing the hair back from one of Hotch’s temples. “Aaron…are you alright?”

“Yeah.”

It might have been more convincing had it not been said in such a small, forlorn voice. And muffled, delivered into the pillow.

The older men looked at each other again. Marty shrugged. He could think of no medical advice that would make things better. Rossi kept stroking the downy hair just beyond the cheekbone, just before the ear.

“Can we bring you anything?”

Silence. Maybe a slight headshake, but it was hard to be sure. It might have been a maneuver to squeeze the pillow even closer.

“Anything?” Rossi had a sudden inspiration. “Jack?”

The pillow-hug loosened. One eye appeared. Rossi felt encouraged.

“We picked up some new colored markers he’s looking forward to showing you. Would you like that?” For a moment the eye widened with apprehension. Rossi hastened to set things straight. “ _Washable_ markers, Aaron. _Washable_ …”

The eye blinked. The voice was a little less lost when it came. “Okay. Yeah. Jack.”

Marty and Rossi left the room, trailing assurances that Hotch would have his son in a matter of minutes. Halfway down the stairs, Rossi’s phone chimed. Still walking, he took the call. Three steps further down, he came to a full stop, listening.

He looked back toward the door of Hotch’s room, frowning.

“Derek…you want him to talk to _who_?”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Garcia bent over her keyboard. She had elevated her job to an art. It was the search for Felicia that dictated the choreography of her fingers.

Unbelievably, she’d found fifty-six people answering to the name Felicia Davenport in the continental United States. She’d narrowed the list based on census information about race. Now, armed with the thirty-some-year-old address provided by Morgan, she was cross-referencing census data, tax returns, and Social Security information.

Data spun across her screen in a dizzying display of digital virtuosity. And froze at the end of the trail.

“Oh…oh, no…” Garcia’s large eyes misted over. This was one of those good news/bad news endings.

And she wasn’t sure which way the scales would tip.


	79. Miss BeeBee

Garcia stared at her screen.

She double-checked her results, and then re-ran the entire trail that led to Felicia. There was no doubt. With a sigh of resignation, she reached over, using the tip of a pen sprouting pink feathers and tinsel, she punched the number that would connect her to Morgan. When the line was busy, she hesitated. This wasn’t something she wanted to leave in voicemail. She bit her lip and dialed Rossi. When the result was another busy signal, she bowed her head.

There was no option. She left a message.

“Guys, I found Felicia…call me back, okay?”

She knew the tone of her voice would warn them that finding her quarry wasn’t all triumph and celebration. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Time would tell.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Had Garcia looked deeper, she would have seen that Morgan’s phone was the one tying up Rossi’s. But knowing that, she might have interrupted. And that would have made her call doubly unwelcome.

“His first grade teacher wants to talk to him?” Rossi repeated Morgan’s request.

“She wants proof that I’m a friendly force when it comes to Hotch.” Morgan shot a wary glance at the receptionist following every word of the one-sided conversation. “If he could just tell her that I _am,_ it’d help me out…you know…help me find out the stuff we need to know.”

Rossi had been retracing his steps back to Hotch’s room. He shouldered his way through the door and surveyed the blanketed lump hugging a pillow.

_Yeah. **That** looks like someone who’s up for another shock from his past. Way to kick a guy when he’s down, Dave._

“Hang on, Derek.” Rossi approached the bed. Sitting on the edge, he ran a hand down the side of the blanket-lump, stopping at what felt like the waist, giving it a small shake. “Aaron? There’s someone on the phone who’d like to talk to you.”

Even through the muffling effect of the pillow, Hotch’s sigh was eloquent. Rossi had no trouble translating it: _Please. I’ve had enough for one day…one lifetime…just leave me alone. Please._

“Aaron. This might be important. Might help in finding out what happened to you.” Aware that Morgan and the erstwhile grade school teacher were waiting, Rossi played his trump card. “Morgan’s on the line. He needs your help.”

 _… needs your help._ It was a phrase that always found an echo in Hotch’s soul. He couldn’t turn a blind eye to anyone whose situation he might better. The blanket-lump groaned. When it turned over and relinquished its pillow, Rossi knew he’d won. He pressed the phone into Hotch’s hand.

“Yeah, Morgan. I’m here. Wha’d’ya need?” The Unit Chief pulled himself up to a sitting position, back pressed against the headboard…pillow at the ready.

Rossi watched the glare morph into a wide-eyed stare. He stood by, not knowing what the aftereffects of this latest shock might be.

But the fact that it _was_ a shock was becoming clearer by the second.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan had turned back toward Ada when he heard Rossi talking in the background to Hotch, confident that the older man would be able to convince him to take the call. But the receptionist was losing patience. As soon as Morgan was within reach, she snatched the phone out of his grasp.

“Oh, here…give me that.” She fixed the agent with a disapproving eye. “Lord Almighty. At my age you don’t have time for all this lolly-gagging and shimmying around.” Her voice rose; something she always felt was necessary when dealing with long distance communication.

“No, this isn’t Morgan. He was takin’ too long. This’s Miss Ada Billingsley. Who’m I talkin’ to?”

Expecting Derek, Hotch was thrown off a bit by the strange voice, but when the name from his past was tossed into the mix, catapulting him back to a time and place he’d never wanted to revisit, his power of speech took a temporary leave of absence.

“I…uh…I…”

“Oh, hush up, young man. Put Aaron Hotchner on. I want to talk to little Aaron.” She shot a look at anxious Morgan. “Or _not_ so little Aaron. I’m told he’s all grown up and a fancy FBI agent. Put him on!”

Hotch swallowed, trying to work through the shock, sounding more officious than he intended. “This _is_ Hotchner.”

Several beats of dead silence followed his proclamation. When Ada spoke, there was a discernible yearning in her voice. She wanted to believe she’d found her one-time student, but she wasn’t going to be taken in by con artists. She’d seen on T.V. where all kinds of frauds were perpetrated on kind and trusting souls. Especially elderly ones. Miss Ada would never fall prey to such scammers.

“Aaron Hotchner? How do I know that for sure?”

Morgan looked at the ceiling, eyes closed, biting his lip. _First the picture, now this. I should’ve known she wouldn’t take a phone call as proof I’m Hotch’s friend._

Rossi watched, helpless to go to Aaron’s aid; concerned about leveling another emotional blow at the man’s psyche.

“I’m…I’m Aaron Hotchner.” His voice held a slight touch of disbelief, or maybe wonder. “You’re…Miss Billingsley?”

“I know who I am, young man. What we’re tryin’ to establish is who _you_ are.” Her words grew softer than Morgan would have thought possible. “Tell me somethin’ only Aaron would know. Tell me somethin’.”

Hotch’s breathing had gone ragged. He felt a lump forming in his throat, which didn’t make things any easier. And he couldn’t think clearly. He was running into that cardboard wall of panic that surrounded his entire childhood…the one he’d told Marty about. He couldn’t think of anything…anything…but… _I’m scared. I don’t wanna do this. I’m scared._ He took a breath and squeezed his eyes shut….and admitted defeat.

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything, Miss BeeBee. I’m sorry.”

Silence echoed down the line. Morgan saw the transformation in Ada’s expression, and wondered what Hotch had come up with as proof. At last, the receptionist’s face rearranged itself into lines of grateful happiness.

“Only one person has ever called me ‘Miss BeeBee.’” A tear gathered in the corner of one eye. Ada wiped it away with impatient intolerance for such weak sentiment. But Morgan saw it…and smiled. “Do you remember when that started, little Aaron?”

All Hotch could do was sniff. This day had been too much. His lack of response didn’t matter. His first grade teacher continued the story anyway.

“I’ll never forget. You showed up at school with a swollen lip and two teeth less than you’d had the day before. Tried to tell me something about falling off your bike. It hurt so much you couldn’t say the words very well. Couldn’t make my name come out right. That was the first time you called me ‘Miss BeeBee.’ It was the best you could do under the circumstances. Do you remember, little Aaron?”

Rossi saw Hotch shiver, trying to hold back tears. He scrubbed them from his eyes with the rough heel of one hand. “I remember. I do. Now.” He took a steadying breath. “You helped me clean up and you buttoned up my jacket all the way to the neck. Told me to keep it that way… ‘cause… ‘cause…”

“ ‘Cause that so-called ‘fall’ from your bike had bloodied your shirt. Didn’t want the others makin’ fun of you or askin’ you awkward questions. So we kept that shirt a secret, and you learned another way to hide what was happenin’ to you.” Morgan watched Ada give in to the tears. This time she let them spill; an offering to the past. Her voice, however, remained strong and sure.

“You showed up with your jacket all buttoned up a lot after that.” She let out a long, shuddering sigh. “Little Aaron. My brave, little, little Aaron.”

Morgan moved closer, placing a tentative, but hopefully comforting hand on Miss Ada’s shoulder.

Miles away, Rossi moved in, fitting an arm around Hotch, pulling him nearer.

With his eyes shut, just for a moment, Aaron thought he was back in Bluefields; a small, hurt boy who was scared to let anyone comfort him. Because Felicia had disappeared already. And it could happen again.

Anyone who hugged Aaron Hotchner could vanish overnight.

He shivered when Dave squeezed him tighter.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Downstairs, Marty had decided to start dinner.

The endeavor was mainly to keep Jack occupied. The boy wanted to see Daddy. The doctor had told him that he could go up once Poppi was finished, but it was taking too long.

Marty distracted the child by exploring some of Garcia’s more adventurously decorated offerings. The inside of the refrigerator was a fascinating food museum. They’d unearthed what could only be described as a zebra cake. It was three layers of sweetness, iced in jagged stripes of black and purple. Jack was fascinated.

“How’d she do the stripes?” He had a professional interest in such markings. And he could tell these weren’t made by Sharpies.

 “I’m no expert, but I think she did it with food coloring.”

“What’s that?” Not a lot of baking was done in the Hotchner household. This was new ground for Jack.

Marty glanced around Rossi’s well-stocked kitchen, eye falling on an ornate spice rack that included some small bottles on the bottom shelf. He snagged a few samples, depositing them before the child’s curious eyes. “Here ya go. These are food coloring. I think that’s how the stripes were done.”

The doctor returned to fixing a tray to bring up to Hotch. Hungry or not, he’d thrown up his breakfast and hadn’t eaten anything since. Marty was determined to make up the nutritional loss. He didn’t notice Jack inspecting the small bottles.

Daddy had said not to take things without asking.

“Dr. Palmer? Can I take one of these?”

Preoccupied, Marty glanced in Jack’s direction. He assumed the question pertained to the open box of crackers lying on the counter; one of the trophies from the ‘hunting’ expedition.

“Sure you can. Just one or two, though. Don’t wanna spoil your appetite.”

Jack decided one bottle…the red one…was enough. He didn’t understand the part about the food coloring spoiling his appetite, but Dr. Palmer and Poppi said lots of things he didn’t understand. He pocketed the small bottle of concentrated red dye, envisioning using it with one of the paint brushes from the arts-and-crafts supplies that they’d used to make the Bat-Monitors.

He wished Poppi would come downstairs.

He was really looking forward to spending some alone-time with Daddy.


	80. One Last Lesson

Rossi could only hear one side of Hotch’s conversation with his former first grade teacher.

He kept a tight hold on the younger man, feeling him shiver, keenly aware that he was still sick; still running a fever, and woefully depleted after a morning of emotional shocks strong enough to have sent his stomach into rebellion.

Once again he debated the wisdom of taking this journey at a time when Hotch was weak. Once again he wondered at the value of his own friendship in leading Hotch down this painful road. And, once again, he wound up at _if not now… when?_

It was too late to turn back. Even if he called Morgan home and reeled Garcia in, Aaron wouldn’t be able to abandon the search. He’d be unable to ignore what they’d already uncovered.

He’d keep pushing anyway until he knew the whole story. No matter the damage to his career or himself. Because Aaron had an abundance of curiosity…one of the attributes that made an investigator exemplary.

_And he also has an unfortunate belief in his own unworthiness. He might be bent on proving once and for all that he got what he deserved, by virtue of the fact that he’s broken…not a ‘real’ person. If Aaron **is** broken, it’s because of what was done to him. He didn’t start that way._

_He’s got the cause and effect sequence all screwed up in his mind. Thinks there’s something wrong with him, which is why bad things collect around him. Can’t understand that those bad things damaged him in the first place. They’re the cause, not the effect._ Rossi sighed. _Not his fault. If I accomplish nothing else with this, I want him to finally see that none of this was his fault._

Rossi had no delusions that pushing Aaron Hotchner’s buttons would lead to a cheery, bright place, but he hoped in the end, there’d at least be a lessening of the darkness that surrounded the man.

So he cinched Aaron a little closer, and listened to him relive bits of his past.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan was impressed that Miss Ada’s voice didn’t betray the tears catching in the creases and crevices lacing her weathered cheeks. She ignored them, continuing to talk to Hotch as though she were the soul of calm.

But what Morgan was hearing was setting his teeth on edge.

Rossi’s first instinct might be to comfort Hotch; Morgan’s was to take down whoever or whatever had hurt him. Listening to the detailed horrors inflicted on his boss had him seething with impotent rage. It didn’t help that the perpetrator no longer existed. He was glad Randy had remained behind in the basement. One goading remark or smirk and Derek would have been quite happy to let the Police Chief stand in for Hotch’s father.

When Ada shrugged off his touch on her shoulder, intended to comfort, he wasn’t sure if she was indicating she was capable of handling her emotions without anyone’s help, or if it was because she hadn’t asked Hotch yet if he had a friend named Morgan. He pulled back and continued to listen, building images of Hotch as a child to the cadence of Miss Ada’s words.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Well I’ll be…Little Aaron Hotchner.” Ada pulled herself more erect. _Getting myself in hand_ she would have termed it. Surprised to find them, she dashed away the tears and let the sound of her smile travel over the connection to her former student.

“I get the idea you don’t recall much of your life here, Aaron. That true?”

“No, Miss BeeBee, uh…Billingsley. I don’t.”

She heard him sniffle and pressed her lips together in sympathy, voice still matter-of-fact, soothing. “That’s alright. Maybe it’ll help if I tell you some things. Things I’ve wanted to say to someone who’d understand. Wanted to say them for a long time now.” She glanced over her shoulder. “But first, you have a friend name of ‘Morgan?’ He someone you trust?”

Ada was reassured when there was no hesitation. “I trust him with my life. Every single day.”

“That’s good. Always knew you’d find your way out, Aaron. Always knew you’d end up attracting the kind of people who you _could_ trust with your life.”

“I don’t understand.” She could hear the throatiness that meant the man was fighting to keep control.

“My little, little Aaron. What happened to you was so wrong…inexcusable. And I know it seemed like anyone who helped you ended up gettin’ punished. And I remember you cryin’ about that one time I found you hidin’ in an empty classroom, hopin’ no one’d find you so you wouldn’t have to go home. You remember that?” Her voice gentled even more. “Tell me what you remember, Aaron. You’re safe now. Tell me…”

Hotch’s answer had the heavy sound his deep voice could get when emotion tinged it. “I’m sorry…I don’t remember anything but…but being scared…and hungry. But mostly scared.”

“But think carefully, little Aaron. Who were you scared for? Do you remember?”

She could hear him swallow several times as he cast about, trying to recall. Finally, Ada decided to fill in the gaps.

“It’s alright. You don’t have to talk. Just listen.” Her words took on a measure and gravity that told Hotch they’d been waiting to be spoken for a very long time. Like stones she’d been saving at the bottom of a well, she was dredging them up now…heavy and solid and irrefutably real. And part of a burden she’d be glad to shed.

“You weren’t just scared for yourself. You were worried for everyone else in town who might stand up to your Daddy. When I found you hidin’ that time, I wanted to take you home with me. But you wouldn’t let me. You thought anyone who showed you kindness would be sent away. I’ll never forget. You chose to go back home to that monster on your own. Even so young, and not quite able to understand or put the pieces together quite right, you thought you had to sacrifice yourself to keep others from gettin’ hurt.

“Somethin’ so noble inside that little child you were. I just knew…it was bigger and stronger than _anything_ your Daddy had inside him, or _would_ ever have inside him. Bigger and stronger than anything he could buy or control or force to serve him. I knew right then that no matter what happened, I’d be nothin’ but proud of you…and, if I can believe your friend Morgan here…and you say he’s a trustworthy sort…I was right.

“He showed me your picture, Aaron. I can see it in your eyes. I can hear it in your voice. And I can read it in your friend here…in the people you surround yourself with…you still have that power. And all you went through here growin’ up? I think it was because your Daddy was jealous. He knew you’d do somethin’ so much bigger with your life than he could ever hope to…he was just flat out, spiteful jealous.

“Your friend here says you save lives…fix them when you can. That sounds just about right to me.” Her voice took on a mock hardness. “And if you’d settled for doin’ a whit less than your best, I’d be givin’ you an entirely different kind o’ talkin’ to. But savin’ lives…that’s a fine thing; maybe the biggest and best thing a man can do.

“And as for this Godforsaken town…well…it’s faded to nothin’. It’s almost dead. So you see, what I wanted to tell you all these years really boils down to just two things.

“The scales balanced out. The town and your Daddy lost.

“But most of all…most of all, little Aaron…I’m proud of you. I knew you’d be the best thing this town ever produced. You should know that, and be proud, too.

Ada finally sat back, giving a deep sigh. “And the people you worried about, the ones that were forced out of this town? They were a lot better off than if they’d stayed to watch it die. So that was another good thing that came from you. Number of people saw the truth of what you were. I’m just glad I’m the one gets to tell you.”

Hotch felt numb. This day was too much to process all at once. But something about what Ada had said nagged at him. He cleared his throat and tried to sound as strong as she expected him to be.

“Why did you stay in Bluefields, Miss Bee…Billingsley? If it was better to get out, why didn’t you?”

The chuckle that came back at him was warm, conveying a sense of fulfillment.

“Because I always knew there’d come a day when you’d need answers. I’m still your teacher, Aaron. I had to wait here so I could make sure you’d find what you needed; so you’d learn that one last lesson. I knew you’d ask ‘Why me?’ Well, it’s because it made the **best** you. It brought out that gift in you that helps others. I know it’s not fair, but I’m bettin’ those you’ve saved…those you’ve helped…would say it was worth it. I’m bettin’ they’d thank God for it.”

In the back of Hotch’s mind, he heard Jack’s bubbly, giggling voice… _It just is...‘Cause blue’s the best…blue makes the **best** skies, Daddy._


	81. Watching Over Hotch

When Hotch’s eyes went distant, taking on a glassy, exhausted sheen, Rossi reached up. Removing the phone from his friend’s numb fingers, he pressed it to his own ear.

“Hello? Miss, uh…Billingsley?”

But Hotch’s old teacher was gone. Having said all she’d been saving up over the decades, she’d returned Morgan his phone. She hadn’t completely relinquished her hold on it, though. Rossi could hear her delivering some final admonishments to the agent. He imagined Derek’s attention focused on her as they both gripped the still-connected device.

“My Aaron said he trusts you with his life, young man. So, don’t you let him down. Not _ever_. You understand?”

Morgan tried to embody the gravity he hoped was appropriate to the situation. “No, ma’a…uh…Miss Ada. That’s a big part of my job; keeping him safe.”

The old eyes were shrewd, yet lit with approval. “But you don’t do it just because it’s your job, do you?…You _like_ him. You feel the same thing in him that I saw all those years ago. Same thing that made his Daddy hurt him.”

Morgan had never broken down exactly why he liked Hotch, why he went more than the extra mile to make sure he was safe. He wondered if the anger that had risen to the surface at Ada’s recounting of some of Hotch’s experiences was partially responsible for the surge of emotion he felt now.

Over the line Rossi heard Morgan respond with a fervor unusual for the man.

“Miss Ada, I’d lay down my life to keep him from harm. He’s always on my radar.” Morgan faltered for a moment, admitting something he’d never actually verbalized. “He’s the brother I missed the whole time I was growing up. That’s what I see in him. I promise you, I’ll look after him. He’s family. I won’t let him down.”

The receptionist nodded, letting her hand drop, giving Morgan control of his phone. “Good. He trusts you, so that’s…that’s good.” She levered herself out of her chair. Mumbling something about freshening up, she wended her way through the bullpen, turning a corner and disappearing from view.

Morgan glanced around, realizing he was now the sole occupant of the Bluefields PD front office. He shook his head. _Hell of a way to run an operation._ Bringing the phone up, he checked to see if anyone was still connected.

“Hotch! You there?”

“It’s me, Derek.” Rossi’s voice was low, as though he were trying to keep from disturbing something else in progress. “Uh…Hotch’s kind of out of it right now.”

“He okay?”

“He’s just…” Rossi looked at the distracted eyes of his friend, focused inward, slightly worried quirk to his brows. “…He needs some time, that’s all.”

“Did you hear? What Miss Ada said to him?”

Rossi could detect a vibrato in Morgan’s voice. Something that told him the agent was straining to hold himself in check. “No, I didn’t. I could only hear Hotch…and he didn’t say much.”

“Oh, man…Rossi…” Morgan turned in the direction Ada had taken, keeping an eye out for her return. He had a suspicion that she wouldn’t enjoy having her private discussion with her once-upon-a-time student paraphrased for some stranger. “We both know he had it rough, but… _man_ …”

Morgan condensed the part of the exchange related by Miss Ada. Despite trimming it down to the basics, he felt burgeoning rage like hot coals in his stomach again by the time he reached the end.

“So I’m asking once more, Rossi…is he okay?”

The older agent took a longer, steadier look at Hotch, and didn’t sound as certain when he responded. “I think he’ll be fine, but I’ll keep an eye on him, just to be sure.”

Morgan could hear the grumbling approach of Miss Ada, nearing the corner that would bring her into view. He hurried to conclude his conversation before she’d come into hearing range.

“Listen, I’m gonna stay a while longer. Seems there were some rumors about Hotch not turning out ‘right’ that started circulating when he was a teen. Now that I’ve been certified as Hotch-friendly, I might be able to find out more. Might lead to, you know…what that whole institution thing is all about.”

“Sounds good. They’re covering for you at work?”

“Yeah. They’re keeping us on the bench mostly, since we’re down you and Hotch. I don’t think I’ll be missed if I hang here.” He watched Ada making her way across the floor toward where he stood by her desk. “And I wanna check out Felicia Davenport’s old neighborhood. Garcia’s on her, but I thought, as long as I’m here…ya know?”

Rossi glanced at his phone’s display. “I’ve got a message from her. Once I get Hotch a little more settled, I’ll call her back…see what she’s found.”

He could hear the receptionist’s approach. Grinning, Rossi signed off. “Mind yourself, Derek. Miss Ada sounds old school; might rap your knuckles with a ruler, or make you stand in the corner if you get sassy with her.”

“Don’t worry. I think she likes me now that I’m Hotch-approved. Let me know if Garcia needs anything.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“You, too. And take care of Hotch.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi palmed his phone and turned his full attention to the Unit Chief.

To say Hotch was preoccupied…distracted…was putting it mildly. Rossi could almost hear the whirring of the little hamster wheel he envisioned running the man’s thought processes. He just wished he knew what direction those thoughts were taking. He tightened the arm circling Hotch’s shoulders.

“Aaron?”

No response.

Rossi tried jostling him; making his voice sharper.

“Aaron!”

“Huh? What?” The eyes that turned toward him blinked; still looking a little stunned. Unbidden, some of old Mr. Bledsoe’s words came to Rossi’s mind. When he’d related how Aaron had looked in the aftermath of ousting his father from the family home. _Kind of shocky in the eyes._

Rossi craned his neck backwards, the better to focus on his friend’s face. When Hotch’s gaze began to drift away, he frowned. “Hey. What’s goin’ on in there?” The hand wrapped around Hotch’s shoulders flexed, giving a light tap to the man’s temple.

“Morgan gave me the Cliff Notes version of what your teacher said. Sounded pretty good to me. So what’s goin’ on in there?”

Hotch did his best to rally. “Um…yeah.” His eyes finally focused, giving the impression that he was fully present. “Yeah…I’m okay…I just really need some time alone.” When Rossi didn’t move, maintaining his hold and studying Hotch’s expression as though Miss Ada would be giving a test on it later, the Unit Chief sighed.

“Dave, I can’t put it all together. I don’t know how I feel or what I think. I can’t tell you anything.” He rubbed both hands over his face, burying it in their palms while he expelled a ragged sigh. “It’s…just…too…much…”

Rossi echoed the sigh. He removed his arm from Hotch’s shoulders, pushing himself up off the bed. Lifting the blanket that had slid down to pool around Aaron’s hips, he gestured with his chin. “Scoot down. I’m tucking you in and officially proclaiming this naptime. You _do_ need to eat, Aaron. You keep falling behind in the nutrition department, and both Marty and I are getting more than a little concerned. And we still have a lot to talk about. But for now…naptime.”

Too numbed by the day’s events to be anything but obedient, Hotch slid down to a supine position. But his eyes remained open, staring at nothing, seeing a maelstrom of images newly resurgent from his past. They needed sorting, but he felt lightheaded and surreal. He realized he was in an emotional state he detested: too strained and tired to sleep.

Rossi lowered himself to the mattress by his side and watched for a considering moment. Lips set in a grim line, he rested a hand in the center of Hotch’s chest.

_I can’t begin to know what he’s feeling. But if Marty’s right and, on top of everything else, he’s subconsciously mourning his self-image as a broken man, then maybe sleep will help. It’s part of the early grieving process. It might let him distance the shock. It might allow his mind to cope with all the realizations and revelations that have bombarded him today._

Rossi pressed a gentle palm against his friend’s chest.

More than a year ago, when Hotch had been recovering after his final battle with George Foyet, it had helped him to relax when Dave had let his fingers lightly massage a certain, central point on his sternum. It wasn’t until Reid had intervened that they’d realized this ‘relaxation point’ was due to an injury suffered when Hotch was a child and his father had kicked him in the chest. Reid had called it an anomalous nerve cluster. A light touch relaxed, a too heavy one induced nausea. After learning the genesis of it, Rossi had avoided ever touching that spot. It had felt a little like exploiting a weakness.

But now, he weighed the pros and cons…and gave himself permission to help Hotch let go.

Gently, slowly, Rossi massaged the area that was yet another of Hotch’s souvenirs from his father’s rage.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The weight and warmth in the center of his chest felt good.

Hotch didn’t think about it. His mind was numb; wrapped in cotton. He knew Dave was by his side. He’d said he wanted to be alone, but found he was glad his friend was near.

It might have been more accurate to say he didn’t want to talk…but silent companionship was welcome.

The gentle pressure radiated out from his chest, running along his nerves. Tension eased out of his muscles. He sank a little more deeply into the bedding.

When Hotch’s eyes closed and he gave a single, deep sigh…Rossi knew he was slipping away. He waited a few minutes to be sure Aaron was asleep.

He brushed his lips across the warm forehead, pulled the covers a little higher, and crept from the room.

 

xxxxxxx

 

A short time later, having promised to be quiet and let Daddy sleep, Jack climbed onto the bed, intent on amusing himself until his father woke up.

Jack had heard Dr. Palmer say he could be considered recovered from the measles a couple of days after his spots had disappeared. And at that point he could once again be around other people.

He knew what that meant.

Jack wasn’t ready to go back to school. Not while he could spend time with Daddy. He inspected his now clear-skinned arms and chest with a small, disconsolate sigh. Leaning over, he lifted Daddy’s shirt and examined the faded, but still slightly mottled ribs. And the whitish scars that were oddly symmetrical. Jack was proud of his father’s markings. They told stories of battles and heroism. Jack likened the scars to pictures he’d seen from the Old West of Native American warriors. Every line, every slash had been earned…symbols of manhood.

In Jack’s eyes, the Leopard Chief’s body was beautiful…it was a hero’s body.

And more than anything Jack wanted to be just…like…Daddy.

He picked up the brush he’d selected from the stash of arts and crafts supplies. He dug into his pocket, finding the little bottle of food coloring Dr. Palmer had said he could take.

With careful precision and a developing artist’s eye…and the knowledge that he’d been given permission; that this time he was operating within the law…Jack began to paint his own torso to match Hotch’s.

It wouldn’t matter that Daddy’s scars were white and Jack’s would be red. What mattered was that they’d match in line and pattern.

What mattered was that anyone who saw would know…

…these two belonged to the same tribe.

 


	82. Broken vs. Jinx

Down in the kitchen, after Jack had been dismissed to the upstairs with the stern injunction to be careful and _not_ awaken his father, Rossi leaned against a counter, meeting Marty’s eyes.

He shook his head. “Wow.”

“That bad?”

Rossi nodded. In a monotone, he passed on the bare bones of Hotch’s exchange with his first grade teacher. When he was finished, he gazed out the window at the cool, green peace of his backyard. “I dunno, Marty. How much can a man take? Is it possible to come back from that kind of abuse?”

After a considered moment, during which the doctor looked back on the experiences of his own long life, vicarious and otherwise, he sighed.

“Depends on what you mean by ‘come back,’ Dave. If you mean soldier on like it never happened…isn’t that what Aaron’s been trying to do all his adult life? If you mean emerge unscathed…no, it’s not possible. But I believe there’s a middle ground that we’re pushing our young friend toward… Awareness. Simple acceptance and awareness.”

Marty stepped over to his friend’s side, giving his shoulder a companionable shake. “Hey…he’s a fighter. According to you, he’s proved that time and again. I think he can do it. I don’t think you’ve made any mistakes here, Dave.”

Hearing one of his biggest fears voiced, Rossi pulled back from contemplating his manicured lawn. “Think he’ll thank me in the end?”

A bark of mirthless laughter escaped Marty. “No. At least, not right away.” He leaned against his own section of counter, side by side with his old friend. “But that’s not why you’re doing it, is it?”

Rossi gave his head a slow shake. “No. I want him to be happier. And I wanted to understand that dark place inside him, so I could be a better friend. But,  a happy Aaron…that’s what I want most.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand. “I just don’t know if getting all this out will free him or gut him. Or if I’m learning anything that’ll help me understand him better.”

“Well…what’s something he does that makes you think he’s not happy?”

Having observed Hotch for years with a profiler’s skill, Rossi’s answer was quick and decisive. “For one thing, he doesn’t touch others the way most people do. No spontaneous hugs or affectionate gestures. At first I thought it was because he’d been hit so many times growing up, that physical contact had bad connotations for him. But that’s not it…he _likes_ being touched. He just won’t be the initiator, and…”

Rossi stopped mid-sentence, an epiphany striking. “Oh, my God. It’s not because he was hit. It’s because everyone he hugged as a kid disappeared from his life. Oh, my God. That’s it. And when Haley was killed, he probably lumped her fate right in with the others. She was someone he reached out to for love and she got hit right between the eyes as a result. Jeez. He’s said it to me before about how there has to be something wrong with him for the people who’re supposed to stick by him to hurt him and abandon him instead. But that’s not it…he’d forgotten the basics, the essentials from when it all started. What he’s _really_ afraid of is being the reason _others_ get hurt. He’s never put it that way.  He uses the word ‘broken,’ but I bet he means ‘jinx.’ Aaron thinks he’s a jinx. And maybe that’s part of the reason he’s devoted his life to stopping those who do harm.”

Rossi shook his head, exploring a new perspective. “I bet he doesn’t even know it. Not consciously, anyway. He’s trying to balance out the scales for being born a jinx; being the cause of others’ misfortune.”

Marty smiled. “Sounds like your fears about not learning anything from this mess are groundless. You said Aaron’s teacher told him all those people ended up better off for having him in their lives.” He licked his lips. “What about Haley? Will he still point to her as someone whose life he ruined? Ended, even?”

Rossi’s eyes flicked back and forth, tracking scenes from the Hotchner’s lives. When a slow smile emerged, he looked up at the doctor. “Haley said it a thousand times: the best thing that ever happened to her was Jack. By extension, that has to mean Aaron, too.”

Marty nodded. “No Aaron…no Jack. Even knowing how it would end, I bet she would’ve chosen the same all over again, knowing Jack was part of the bargain.” His own smile surfaced. “I hope we can get him to see it that way, too.”

Feeling a little better about Hotch’s emotional journey, Rossi relaxed, sharing a moment of relief, an acknowledgement of progress with Marty. His eyes fell on the tray the doctor had been preparing.

“I think he’ll stay asleep for a while. Should probably put that away for now.”

Marty grunted agreement. “Yeah. Got anything I can cover it with? Foil? Saran wrap?”

“Sure.” Rossi pushed off from where he’d been leaning, pulling open the drawer where he kept a roll of foil. He glanced at the items on the counter surface directly in front of him. And frowned.

“What’d you guys do with food coloring?”

“Huh?” Marty looked up. “Oh…that. Nothing. Boy just wanted to know how Garcia made some of her magic.” He smiled. “Frosting…purple frosting…made him ask how it was done.”

“M-a-r-t-y…” The dawning sound of doom in Rossi’s voice pulled the doctor’s attention.

“What?”

“One’s missing. The red one’s missing.”

“No…I…” The doctor came to stand beside his friend, taking note of the small disarray of food coloring bottles and crackers spilling out of an open box. “Oh…Oh, no.” His swallow was audible. “He asked me if he could ‘take one.’ I thought he meant the crackers…Oh, no…”

Dread filled Rossi’s eyes. “Jack’s on the loose with red dye…” His head snapped around toward the stairs. “And I sent him up there…to sit with his unconscious father…”

In the mad scramble to reach Hotch’s room, and hopefully avert, or at least truncate, whatever project the small Hotchner was executing, neither man noticed Mudgie and Fudge reclining with canine equanimity in the living room.

It would be hours before anyone noticed Jack’s test run…Mudge’s slowly wagging, red-tipped tail.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“You still here?”

Any bite Ada’s words might have had was softened by the slight redness of her eyes. Morgan thought ‘freshening up’ probably meant she’d wanted privacy to shed a few tears in remembrance of the abused, little boy who’d been her student.

“Yes, Miss Ada.”

She plopped into her seat with ill-concealed irritation, snapping her magazine open. Morgan didn’t take it personally.

“Why?”

“You told me to look after Hotch…Aaron…That’s why I’m here.”

“Yes? So?”

“Miss Ada, you mentioned some rumors you’d heard about him. When he was a teenager. It would help me to look after him if you’d tell me what those were.”

No trace of tears remained. The eyes were piercing, challenging. “And how would rumors and gossip thirty-some years old help you now? Help _Aaron_ now?”

Morgan ran a hand over his shaved skull; grateful for the lack of hair he might otherwise be pulling out. He was getting tired of always being on the defensive with this woman. He felt as though they were in an interrogation room and he was on the wrong side of the table.

But she was on Hotch’s side. And this wasn’t official business; he couldn’t expect the same level of acquiescence that flashing a badge would produce. So Morgan took a deep breath and decided it was okay to let a little of his boss’ private affairs out of the closet, especially to this woman who had just shared some very private information of her own. And might have more, if he played his cards right.

“Miss Ada, you already know something’s blocking Aaron’s memories about his time here.” He held up a hand, taking a proactive stance in fending off objections. “I’m not saying forgetting this place is a bad thing. I think he _should_ turn his back on most of it. But that’s up to him…not me. Or you. He needs to know the truth about some things from his past before he can move on.”

Morgan paused, eyes flickering back and forth, looking for reassurance in the receptionist’s own.

“He has really hazy impressions that bother him. And he’s wondering if…” The agent licked newly dry lips. “…was Aaron ever sent away somewhere? Because he needed help? Was that what the rumors were about?”

Ada’s eyes narrowed. “You askin’ me if he went _crazy_?”  The tone warned Morgan he might have crossed a line, besmirching the memory of a beloved, little boy. Before he could think of a way to backtrack, the ex-teacher gave him a speculative look. “Would you think the less of him if he _had_ been?”

“No.” Morgan shook his head. “I wouldn’t.” He licked his lips again, taking another gamble. “I’ve had problems of my own that I needed to talk to someone…professional…about. I wouldn’t think any less of Hotch, if he’d ever needed the same.”

Morgan raised his chin, a glint of defiance in his eye. “And if someone got him help when he needed it as a kid, I’d look on that person as a friend.”

Ada kept her gimlet eye on the agent, but after a few beats, when he didn’t flinch or squirm, she nodded her approval. “Alright then.” She settled more comfortably into her chair; the need to have this FBI agent prove himself satisfied.

“Like I said before, I lost touch with Aaron after I was fired from teachin’. But I did keep an ear out for word about him.” She gave a critical sniff. “Town this small, not much goes on, but you hear _somethin’_. As to whether or not it’s _true_ … _accurate_ …well…”

Morgan pushed down the desire to say something inadvisable like _Hurry up!_ or _What! Tell me!_ His voice was calm and inviting of confidences. “I’ll take that into consideration. I know how gossip can be destructive and mean-spirited.”

Ada nodded. “Well, after Aaron’s Daddy died…thank the Lord for that!...I’d hear folks whisperin’ that it should’ve happened a lot sooner ‘cause then the boy would’ve been saved…would’ve had a chance to be normal.”

Morgan frowned, running a hand over his chin. “What did they mean by that? Do you have any idea?”

“Well, he was like a ghost. My guess is it all caught up with him and he didn’t know how to handle it. People said he was thin as a rail and would just stare when you tried to talk to him. Kind of a scary stare. Unsettled some.” She shrugged. “‘Course, I think those might’ve been the ones who should’ve stepped up to help and turned a blind eye to the boy’s troubles instead. I think it was their own guilt and shame speakin’ more than likely.

“But whatever was goin’ on in that child’s head, it turned him silent and skinny and sad. Some in this town felt haunted by him.”

Ada sighed. “Everyone kinda clammed up about him after that. I asked and I even went lookin’, but couldn’t find him.” She sighed, returning her attention to her three-year-old magazine.

“Maybe he left…maybe they sent him away…but no one talked about little Aaron Hotchner anymore.” She flipped a page she’d read a hundred times.

“That’s all I know.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Hi, Rossi… What’s up? How’s Hotch doing?”

“Hey, Reid…um…He’s fine, he’s fine; comin’ along. Listen, I need to ask you something.”

“Sure. Shoot.”

Rossi took a long, patience-inducing breath. “How do you remove food coloring dye from skin? Specifically _red_ dye…if it makes a difference…”

Silence.

When Reid finally responded, his voice was under tight control, but Rossi could hear the effort that kept laughter bubbling just beneath the surface.

“Hotch? A-again?”

Even though he’d submerged his mirth, Reid was at high volume. This time the decorated one was Jack, but Rossi now hoped to keep _all_ of the indelible skin mishaps that occurred under his roof private. It had seemed funny at the time he took it, but now he prayed with fervor that the young agent hadn’t shared the photo he’d sent of Hotch’s Sharpie leopard spots.

That fond hope was dashed as he heard Prentiss’ guffaw in the background.

And _all_ hope vanished when Emily shouted from her desk, loud enough to carry over the connection….

Rossi cringed. _Abandon hope all ye who enter here…_

“Jeez, Rossi…why don’t you just get it over with? Sign him, frame him, and hang him in a gallery…”


	83. Scar-Craft

Morgan was disappointed when Ada couldn’t provide more information on Hotch’s possible brush with mental health concerns.

He was ready to consider this particular lead played out. Grateful for her memories of Hotch, and for her willingness to revisit a painful past to let him know that as a little boy he’d had some champions, Morgan thanked the receptionist for her help. He headed for the door, but stopped short of exiting.

“Miss Ada, if Aaron _was_ sent somewhere to, you know…get himself sorted out, do you have any idea who would’ve facilitated that? A doctor in town or…anyone?”

The elderly woman pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. “Hospital closed down a long time ago. After that, most all our medical needs were handled by the Bluefields Clinic over on Boylston Street. ‘Course, if you needed specialized care, you’d hafta go on out to Tazewell, or even further. But most folks’d touch bases with the Clinic first…get referred from there.”

Sharp-eyed regard pinned Morgan down, keeping him from jumping to any conclusions about accessible information. “But the Clinic closed down ‘bout six years ago. All those who could jumped ship when it was clear the town was gonna take a long, quiet time to lay down and die.”

Returning to her tattered magazine, her voice was soft as she delivered her last word on the subject. “Some sleepin’ dogs are best left alone, Mr. Morgan. That might be one of them.

“When you see Aaron, you tell him I wouldn’t mind if he sent me a picture of himself every now and then. Just send ‘em care of the Bluefields PD. I’m the only one picks up the mail…” A small, wicked grin surfaced. “…though it’d rankle that bonehead Randy if he opened one and saw what a handsome man little Aaron grew up to be.” The chuckle that followed was equally mischievous. “If Aaron sent me _two_ pictures, I’d keep one at home…and one right here on my desk where everyone could see good lookin’, successful Aaron every single day…I think that’d be a real nice way to send his regards to the whole town. Yes, indeedy.”

Morgan couldn’t help smiling at the thought of some passive vengeance on Hotch’s behalf. “Miss Ada, I’ll make sure he does that. If he’s too long about it, I’ll snap some myself and send them to you all framed and ready to go.”

Amused by the impulse that made him give the ex-teacher a courtly, little bow, Morgan exited the Bluefields PD.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Sitting inside his SUV, he debated his next move.

Morgan knew Garcia had Hotch’s medical records. After all, he’d been the one to remove the tempting icon from her screen. She could tell him what he wanted to know, but it would involve giving permission for her to hike through Hotch’s past, viewing everything in sight.

He couldn’t do that. Especially now that he knew what might be lurking in the depths of his boss’ background.

But in her own way, Garcia was as remarkable as Reid. She was more a savant than a _bona fide_ genius; she could astonish and delight with the unexpected aptitude of her native gifts. _Maybe she’ll be able to tell me where her files came from without having to open them._

Still unsure of the advisability of what he was about to do, Morgan sighed and thumbed the number that would connect him to the tech analyst.

“Hey, Baby Girl. What’s shakin’?”

“Everything that should be, Caramel Delight….” She paused, picking up on his mood with an almost preternatural empathy. “Uh-oh…what’s wrong? What are you doing? Is it Hotch? Is he in trouble? Are _you_ in trouble? Is _everyone_ okay? Tell me! Derek?...”

His low, warm laugh gave her partial reassurance, but she was still on edge, sensing…something…

“Everyone’s fine, Little Mama. As far as I know, at least. But…”

“Oh…God…here it comes…the ‘but’…I _hate_ ‘but’s…”

“G-a-r-c-i-a…calm down….”

“Okay…okay…” He heard her expel a shallow breath. “I just thought maybe there’s more bad news.”

“More?”

“Oh…Oh…that’s right…I haven’t told you about her…about Felicia. I left a message for Rossi, but he hasn’t returned my call…I don’t know why I thought you’d already know…maybe ‘cause…”

“ _Garcia_!” The rapid-fire, staccato voice fell still. Mentally, Morgan braced himself. “What about Felicia?”

“Well…I found her, but…it’s not…the best…news, not if you need to talk to her, anyway.”

Morgan scrubbed his hand over his face. “Spill it, Garcia.” It wasn’t the information he had called to find out, but his research here in Bluefields was two-fold. Any and all help was appreciated.

Realizing her breathless delivery wasn’t the best vehicle with which to relate Felicia’s fate, Garcia adopted a quieter, less frantic tone; one she felt more appropriate to grave news.

“Felicia Davenport is 97 years old. She lives in Richmond at a…uh…nursing home place, sort of.”

Morgan didn’t understand the trepidation he heard in the tech analyst’s voice, nor her judgment of this tidbit of information as anything less than welcome. “That’s _great_ , Baby Girl! You found her. When Hotch’s well enough, I bet he’d like to visit. Good jo…”

“No…No, Derek. It’s not great.” Having reached the point where there was no turning back, no softening the blow, Garcia hurried onward. “It’s a home for patients with advanced Alzheimer’s disease. And…and…I accessed her medical records. She doesn’t communicate at all. Hasn’t spoken to anyone for nearly a year.”

Morgan heard the tears Penelope was trying to control. “It’s just so sad. Hotch won’t be able to talk to her and, if she’s someone Rossi had me look for, then she’s probably really important to My Liege, and I just wish I had better news for him, but Rossi hasn’t called me back, so he doesn’t know and maybe that’s good, ‘cause Hotch’s still sick and …”

“ _Garcia_!” Morgan listened to her whimper to a halt, a victim of her own heartfelt sympathy and lust for happy endings. “You found her. That’s the important thing. I’m sure Hotch’ll be happy with that.” Actually, he _wasn’t_ sure, but he didn’t want Penelope grieving over something beyond anyone’s control.

He tried to redirect her. “I’m sure Hotch would like to know Felicia has everything she needs. Can you tell if she’s in a quality facility? Good care? Trained staff?”

Sniffles preceded her answer, but he could tell she was regrouping. “Uh…yes…sure…It has a good reputation and Felicia’s getting everything she needs, according to her records…”

Morgan saw his opening. “Speaking of records…Baby Girl, _without_ going into all the stuff you scored on Hotch, do you remember where his med recs came from?”

“Wow. You _really_ don’t want me to open those. This is _really_ private stuff, isn’t it…But I understand. I won’t peek.” She paused, mentally retracing the circuitous path she’d taken to gather all things Hotch-related that had originated in Bluefields. “His records came from a hospital in Tazewell, Virginia. I think they were all transferred over a long time ago and I remember I was kind of surprised digital copies were available…But the head of their records department said they trained data entry personnel by having them type in really old records… ‘cause typos and errors wouldn’t matter so much.

“Thanks, Baby Girl. Do you have a name on the hospital?”

“Uh, no, but…” He could hear her keyboard begin to sing as her fingers began their dance, coaxing information out of the ether. “Tazewell’s really small. There’s only one…St. Peter’s. Coordinates are in your GPS…now.”

Morgan saw the address and route appear. He hoped Garcia could hear his smile over the miles. “Thanks, Mama….Hey…you want me to call Rossi and tell him about Felicia? Save you the trouble?”

Her voice conveyed relief and gratitude. “Thanks, Derek. Yeah. Are you going to Tazewell now?”

“I’m gonna head over to check out Felicia’s old neighborhood first. As long as I’m here, might as well. Then, yeah; I’ll go to Tazewell and after that…I don’t know. Maybe come home. Depends on what I find at that St. Peter’s Hospital.”

“Okay. I wish I knew what was going on with you guys…” Morgan’s lack of response was eloquent. Garcia accepted the situation. “Well…maybe someday, right?”

“Right. Maybe someday…”

“Be safe.” It was her standard sign-off. She’d use the same words whether he was headed into a thunderstorm, or an ice cream parlor.

And he loved it. It was like a good luck charm that he relied on, carrying it with him no matter where his trail led.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi and Marty had managed to remove Jack from Hotch’s room without subjecting him to the sight of his son sporting luridly red marks in imitation of the scars that were souvenirs of one of the worst nights of his life.

When Hotch had mumbled and half-wakened, Rossi had spirited the child away while the doctor remained behind, murmuring assurances that all was well, encouraging his patient to relax and let sleep take him once again.

For his part, Jack knew he’d pushed the boundaries. He could feel Poppi’s tension as he talked on the phone with Mr. Reid. Jack resolved to maintain a diplomatic silence as his only defense.

Rossi disconnected the call and, following the instructions he’d obtained, gathered vinegar, towels and patience…the ingredients reputed to have success in cleansing skin of food coloring dye.

As he worked with a gentle, but firm touch, Rossi narrowed his eyes at the boy.

“Jack, are you going to tell me that you didn’t know you were only supposed to use those special, washable markers we got for drawing on skin?”

Jack shrugged, pretending deep concentration in watching the vinegar slowly fade the markings.

Rossi’s lips thinned. _Of course he knew, but he probably found a loophole he thought he could make work…like being told not to use Sharpies, but not food coloring, or being told not to draw on Daddy, but not himself…He’s a Hotchner. They can be crafty. They test limits and love loopholes. Hell…that’s why Aaron was such a good lawyer._

Rossi took a calming breath and decided to come at the situation from a different angle.

“So why did you decide to copy your Daddy’s scars instead of doing more leopard spots?”

Jack’s voice was low; a culprit caught. “They’re cool. Heroes get scars.” He shrugged again. “I like them.”

Rossi sighed. “They might look ‘cool’ to you, but you have to remember what they mean to your Daddy.” He was pleased to see the vinegar was working. It would take a while, but the marks would be gone in the end.

He explained as he worked.

“Your Daddy earned those scars, but he didn’t _want_ them. They might be badges of honor, signs of victory in battle, but getting them hurt. A lot. And it was scary, too. I know for a fact that your Daddy would do _anything_ to keep you from getting hurt or scared. So…when you draw on fake scars like this, it would make him feel bad to see them. Like he failed to keep you safe.”

Jack felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. He’d thought what he was doing was a kind of tribute. The last thing he’d wanted was to do anything that would make Daddy feel bad. He gave a small sniff, signaling regret.

Rossi fixed him with a stern look from under his brows. “So no more drawing scars, and no more drawing with anything besides those markers…okay? We understand each other?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

Rossi dabbed at the child’s body, masking a small smile. It really wasn’t such a terrible crime. And Reid’s vinegar remedy was working.

 _Disaster averted._ _No real harm done,_ he thought, glancing up just in time to see a long, golden tail with an astonishingly red tip go wagging by.

 

 


	84. Mudgie's Makeover

Hotch opened his eyes and felt…dread. An undefined sense of impending doom.

He shivered, wondering what he’d forgotten that could make waking up so literally dread-full. And then, in a split second, the synapses connected and realization coupled with reaffirmation crashed down on him with almost physical force.

_I might have been institutionalized._

_And I remember other stuff. Miss BeeB…_ he stumbled mentally over the childish name he’d had for his teacher… _Miss **Billingsley**. I remember…I remember…she tried to be nice to me. And then one day she wasn’t there anymore. Gone. Like Felicia._

_And I might have been institutionalized._

_And that might cost me my job…my reputation…my livelihood…Jack! I was never around for the first four years of his life. If they add to that that I’m mentally unstable, can they take him away from me?_

_Oh, God. Why did I wake up at all?!?…_

Hotch squeezed his eyes shut. Head spinning with imagined consequences, he rolled over. Hugging one of Rossi’s huge, feather pillows, he buried his face in it so he  could avoid having to confront the waking world where things were suddenly so much more complicated and uncertain.

 

xxxxxxx

 

He didn’t know how long he’d been scrunched into a tense, little ball.

He became aware that a hand was stroking his side from shoulder to waist. He didn’t know how long it had been doing that, nor whose hand it was. He didn’t feel ready to deal with his past or his questionable future either.

_Maybe if I ignore it, whoever it is will go away…leave me alone…let me hide just a little while longer…_

His hopes were dashed by Marty’s low chuckle. He shivered when the doctor’s words revealed a too-keen perception of what he was thinking.

“I can keep doing this if it feels good, young Aaron, but at some point you need to uncurl.”

Hotch groaned into the comfortably muffled confines of his pillow. “Why…?”

“Well, at the very least, Jack’ll start to wonder. And then Jack’ll start to imitate. And it’ll be all kinds of difficult to get him back to school in a couple days, if the two of you are curled up like armadillos. And there’s that little matter of needing to eat and go to the bathroom.”

The voice took on a speculative tone. “I suppose you could skip the one…you seem to be adept at doing without food…and I suppose you could accomplish the other without moving. But Dave wouldn’t thank you for that. He’s already dealing with screw-holes in his door jambs from something your friend Morgan was trying to install…and apparently those washable markers don’t completely fade when applied to fur. His dog is looking a little crazed with remnants of leopard spots on his coat…and now he’s got that pink tail thing going on…”

Hotch frowned, curiosity getting the better of him at mention of all the chaos attending Rossi’s altruism in sheltering the Hotchners under his stately roof. He raised his head, giving the doctor a quizzical look over one shoulder.

“‘Pink tail thing?’”

“I know…” Marty gave his head a rueful shake. “Impugns the poor creature’s male dignity…and, by association, his master’s. You’d have to see it to understand. But, once again, that means uncurling.”

“Did Jack do something to Mudgie?”

By the effort it took for Marty to maintain his solemn decorum, Hotch guessed he didn’t take pet appearance as seriously as Rossi did. Either that, or the doctor was enjoying picturing whatever the neighbors would see at the end of the leash when Rossi stepped out to take his dog for a walk. Hotch rolled over, fatherly concern displacing his other anxieties.

“What happened?”

“Nothing too serious. Just a little exploration into the world of chemical food additives.” Pleased that he’d pulled Hotch out of his doldrums, Marty decided to draw the suspense out; make Aaron work for it. But the profiler’s mind, even if troubled and feverish, was sharp when it came to his son’s likely behavior.

Hotch’s dark eyes narrowed. “Did Jack dye Mudgie’s tail?”

“Little bit.”

“Pink?”

“Little bit.”

Marty was fighting a grin, but he could see Hotch’s reaction was much less mirthful. Aaron bore the double burden of teaching his son about limits when it came both to being a guest in someone else’s home, and to respecting others’ property.

Hotch struggled to sit up. “I need to talk to him.”

“Oh, Dave already did that. I have to say, it was impressive.”

The doctor leaned back, giving a gusty sigh. “Yep…yep…that boy has the makings of a fine, good ol’, Southern lawyer. Argued his case with irrefutable logic and attention to detail. Pointed out that no prior instructions had encompassed the use of liquid dyes on fur.” He noticed Hotch’s narrow regard. “Oh, don’t worry. He acquiesced in the end. Said he understood the error of his ways. Volunteered to pay his debt to society by shampooing the damaged property.”

The doctor stretched, giving every appearance of a man reveling in the telling of his tale.  “Yep…yep… ‘Course, how _that_ went is what set Dave’s teeth on edge.”

Hotch’s chin raised, inviting the rest of the story; the _worst_ of the story, he suspected.

Marty looked positively smug, letting his Virginia drawl thicken for effect. “Seems they lulled ol’ Mudge into a nap, so all they’d have to wash was the tail. Lathered it up real nice…let it set for a while so the soap could penetrate, saturate…do its work.”

The doctor no longer endeavored to hide his Cheshire grin. “I guess that bright red tip kind of…spread…and had a chance to…set…When they rinsed it off, I thought Dave’s eyes would bug right out of his head. His ol’ hound has a nice, clean, plumed tail with what looks like pink barber-pole stripes running all down it.”

He tipped his head to one side, considering the vision post-shampoo Mudge had presented. “Kinda pretty…kinda delicate and swirly looking…like a little girl’s hair ribbons…or a ballerina-pink candy cane…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan found Felicia Davenport’s old neighborhood was in sync with the rest of Bluefields.

Cottages in disrepair nestled side by side along dusty, weed-ridden streets. Every few lots a trailer had taken the place of a more permanent structure. Still, this was no garbage dump. Efforts had been made to spruce up the small homes; at least, those that were occupied.

Window boxes with sad, sparse geraniums peppered the block where Felicia had lived. It put Morgan in mind of a door-to-door salesman who might have offered the little, wooden containers along with packets of seeds that produced the same crimson flowers in each one he now saw scattered up and down the street, gracing the neighborhood sills.

The house number for Felicia, 1037, was vacant.

Morgan stood outside his SUV, an incongruous vehicle in light of the rusted hulks that lined the cracked asphalt running between the houses. He stared at the empty clapboard shell that once sheltered a woman he surmised had as much courage and soul as anyone he’d ever met, so lost in thought he almost didn’t hear the harsh voice hailing him from across the road.

“You! Whatcha lookin’ for, boy? Huh?...HEY! Boy!”

Morgan bristled. _No one calls me ‘boy’ and gets away with it._

He turned…and decided to let the man calling him ‘boy’ get away with it.

The wiry frame ensconced in a wheelchair was white-haired and wizened. He peered through thick lenses at the stranger loitering on his block. “What you want here? You ain’t one o’ them reel-state spec-lators, are ya?” The cackle that followed told Morgan this was some kind of local joke; that Bluefields’ land had value.

“Boy! Answer me!”

The FBI agent gritted his teeth, feeling his jaw muscles clench, but maintained a calm façade, although he couldn’t help trying to look extra vigorous, flexing his biceps and pecs beneath his shirt.

“I’m just passing through, sir.” Morgan could tell the ‘sir’ went a long way with this man. “A friend of mine used to know the lady who lived here. I was just paying my respects.”

Morgan’s heart soared at the response.

“Felicia? You be a friend of Felicia? Or a friend of a friend?” The man’s cackle rang out in the dead air hovering over Bluefields.

“You know her…sir?”

“ _Knew_ her, boy. _Knew_ her. She’s long gone now.”

Despite knowing the current location of Felicia Davenport, thanks to Garcia, Morgan played dumb. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. She was a great lady in her own right.”

A few beats of silence made Derek think that his opinion was shared by the elderly former-neighbor of the lady who’d helped Hotch. When the man spoke again, his voice had lowered; it was no longer challenging this stranger on his turf.

“You got that right, boy. She was a lady to be reckoned with. Did this town proud when few others would. Made her children proud, too.”

_Children?_

Morgan drew a slow, cautious, hopeful breath. “Sir…can you tell me…please…where might I find Felicia’s children?”


	85. Living a Lie

Morgan held his breath, waiting…

_Felicia had children! But don’t get your hopes up too high. Garcia said Felicia was 97. Reid would tell you that, statistically, most women of her generation had children in their 20s. That means her kids’d be senior citizens today… **if** they’re still alive… **if** I can find them or their descendants. They might’ve scattered to the four winds by now._

But no matter the circumstances, his heart was beating double-time with anxious expectation.

Morgan’s eager expression was readable to the wheelchair-bound man. Regarding the stranger from the middle of his narrow strip of brown-edged lawn, he interpreted it as an opportunity. He scratched under one arm, squinting into the sky, hoping he was conveying an attitude of casual omniscience.

“Might be I know some things that’d be of interest to you. Might be.” He stretched, listening to the pop and creak of joints grown stiff with age and disuse, waiting for the stranger to catch on and take the bait.

Morgan sighed, recognizing the game he was expected to play. “My friend would appreciate anything you could remember about Felicia or her family.” He took a deep breath, hoping it would give him patience…and said the magic phrase. “It’d be worth something to him if it helped find them.”

“Really? Worth somethin’, eh? Well, well…” The old man glanced off to the side, feigning indifference, enjoying this unexpected break in the monotony of his day.

He would have taken pleasure in drawing the exchange out, enticing the stranger to ‘set a spell’ and listen to his life story, but the man was clearly city-bred; too wound up to understand an old-timer’s concept of leisure. If he _did_ take a seat, he’d be fidgeting and interrupting…No, the stranger would not be good company. But then, so few people were.

In fact, the man looked as though he’d already reached his limit when it came to trading pleasantries on a hot day in a dead town.

Morgan expelled another long-suffering sigh. Reaching into his back pocket, he withdrew his wallet, and crossed over to stand before this seedy sentinel of the street. As with any game, there were rules. Even if the party exacting payment had been groveling without a cent to his name, the illusion of personal dignity must be granted; sort of like a tax added to the original cost.

Close enough to see the man’s threadbare look, Morgan felt a twinge of pity. Normally, he would have bartered, but this wasn’t some gutter lowlife extorting a fee; it was a man who’d been left behind to expire with the town. And Morgan _was_ in a hurry. There was still the drive to Tazewell for Hotch’s medical records, and still the call to be made to Rossi to spare Garcia the emotional ordeal of relating Felicia’s fate…and, if this oldster provided a lead, that would be one more thing Morgan would want to pursue.

He extracted a fifty dollar bill. This was an expense that would never be submitted for reimbursement, but if it led to even one of Felicia Davenport’s descendants, Morgan would consider it well spent. Folding the money down to an unobtrusive size was almost instinctive. The agent extended his hand, letting the old man palm his offering. He finessed the transaction by oiling it with a little praise.

“My friend remembers Felicia fondly. If you’ve kept in touch with any of her kin, I’m sure they’d appreciate your kindness in helping me find them. I’ll be sure to tell them, Mr….?”

“Resnick. Hank Resnick.”  He couldn’t help glancing down where his worn fingers were fondling the bill. Morgan was gratified when the old man’s eyes widened for a moment as he realized the denomination.

Derek extended his hand. “Derek Morgan. Good to meet you…sir.” He was pleased to see Resnick enjoyed the honorific…unlike Miss Ada who’d bridled at being called ‘ma’am.’

The unexpectedly large gratuity did wonders for Mr. Resnick’s cooperation.

“Felicia, she done lit out o’ here years ago. Forced out. Not whatcha’d call friendly, if ya catch my drift.” Morgan nodded, letting the story unfold even if he already knew it.

The old man’s face and tone grew sour. “Things’s differn’t now, but not so much as you’d wish. Stinkin’ rich, white man did for Felicia. Coulda been worse, though. Leastways she had kin to take her in. Now…me?...I got me a cousin up Remington way won’t lift a finger to help a’tall. ‘Course, ain’t no cops pushin’ me out, but still…”

He descended into querulous grumbling until Morgan felt compelled to intervene, steering him back on track.

“So Felicia had relatives to go to…That’s nice. Do you remember where exactly?”

Old Mr. Resnick scrubbed at his stubbled jaw, eyes narrowing with concentration. “Seems like I ‘member the name of Madison…” His brows rose. “… ‘course that might be the girl’s name…not the town…” He looked up, eyes brightening with a tidbit of which he _was_ sure. “Felicia had all girls; no boys. Kind of got her yen fer a son out by takin’ care of a little boy who needed care in the wors’ way.”

Morgan worked to keep his expression blank. He knew who that surrogate son was. But he wanted to keep Resnick focused. “So you’re not sure if Felicia went to Madison the town, or to a daughter named Madison?”

“Best I can do. Was a long time ago. But it’s more than anyone else can tell you…I know that.” His tone was defensive.

 _Probably scared I’ll ask for my money back._ Morgan sighed, turning to stare at the sad remnants of what might have been a lively neighborhood thirty years in the past. _So Felicia had all daughters and chances are none of them kept the name Davenport once they married. And one of them **might** be named Madison, or one of them **might** have been living in Madison, VA a few decades ago._

He scuffed at the dusty ground, thinking he’d have to get back in touch with Garcia and ask her to run down leads so slim they’d disappear if they turned sideways. He glanced at Resnick, clutching his fifty dollars, struggling to insert it in a grimy pocket before this buff-looking stranger tried to reclaim it.

Morgan smiled, putting the man at ease the best he could. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

He fished out a business card, watching Resnick’s eyes widen even more than they had at the unexpectedly generous payoff. “If you think of anything else, please…give me a call.”

Feeling just a little defeated, Morgan returned to his SUV. _Well, we know where Felicia is and that’s the main thing, I guess…_

He raised a hand in a farewell at Hank Resnick. Slipping into his seat, he turned the key…and froze behind the wheel, engine running. _Derek, you’re an idiot! You should’ve thought of it the second Penelope told you where Felicia was!_

He pressed the number for Garcia, skipping pleasant banter, anxious to see if his sudden inspiration would pan out.

“Baby Girl! That nursing home where they’ve got Felicia! Who’s paying her bill?”

 

 xxxxxxx

 

Marty studied his patient with a critical, yet sympathetic eye.

Hotch wasn’t scrunched into a sad, little comma with a pillow hugged to his stomach anymore, but his face was one of the most mournful the doctor had ever seen. _And considering how **much** I’ve seen, that’s saying something._

He decided to resort to professional means to coax Hotch into opening up about the shocks he’d suffered within the span of a few hours. Although Marty could understand that contact with his old elementary school teacher was a jolt, bringing up bits of recollections long repressed, he was sure the greater blow came from Hotch’s suspicion that he’d been under mental care as an adolescent.

So the doctor tried to pave the way for discussion through the gentle performance of his craft. After taking Hotch’s temperature, feeling the still swollen lymph glands along his jaw and neck, and checking the progress of his measles rash, he took the lean face between his palms and inspected the shadowed eyes.

Uncomfortable under such close scrutiny, Hotch tried to extricate himself from Marty’s grip. When he failed to succeed, he lowered his lids, refusing direct eye contact that was too piercing, too knowledgeable. The doctor kept hold, running his thumbs over the cheekbones…a move that only served to make Hotch close his eyes completely.

Marty sighed.

“Aaron, look at me. C’mon. Open them…please.”

Slowly, fractionally, Hotch complied.

“I know this has been a tough day. And I know you’re worried about what your friend Mr. Morgan might find. But I’m a doctor…a medical professional…and I can tell you right now that you’re as balanced and sane as anyone I’ve ever had under my care.”

Hotch swallowed, but didn’t speak.

“Aaron, I have to reiterate what I told you days ago. And maybe expand on it, too.” Marty took a deep breath. “You’re sick. You’re still running a 101 temperature. I told you that sort of thing affects your emotions. It weakens your control. Now I’m telling you it also makes you less able to think in the logical, concise manner I suspect is standard for you.

“You’re worrying about things before their time.” He studied the still-evasive eyes, and gave an exasperated sigh.

“Alright, Aaron. Talk to me. What are you afraid of? What’s the worst that could happen?”

Hotch’s voice was halting and low. “I could lose my job, if they find out. I could lose my son, if they find out.”

“Who’s ‘they’? First of all, you don’t know that there’s anything to discover. Second of all, if there is, I doubt very much that Mr. Morgan or Dave will be trumpeting it about for all and sundry to hear. So even if once upon a time in the distant past, you had a brush with an institution, why should it affect you now?”

Marty released Hotch’s face, hoping to see a lightening, a touch of hope, a spark of realization that some secrets need never be told.

Instead, a bruised sort of dignity looked back at him.

“ _I’ll_ know, Marty. I’ll know I’m a fraud…working at a job I don’t deserve…raising a son who deserves better. _I’ll_ know. And I won’t be able to forget it ever again. And if I continue on as though nothing’s changed, all I’ll be doing is bequeathing Jack a certain dearth of soul. Because my whole life will be a lie.”

Hotch pulled back in on himself, returning to the nonjudgmental comfort of the pillow.

“ _I’ll_ know.”


	86. Tazewell

Frustrated, Marty gave up trying to reprogram Hotch’s thinking concerning his imagined, and as yet unsubstantiated, failings. He left the Unit Chief alone, hoping solitude might help him focus through his fever and foster a more optimistic…or at least realistic…perspective.

Marty adjourned to the kitchen where Rossi was trying to trim some of the pink out of Mudge’s tail. The agent looked up as the doctor entered, narrowing his eyes in anticipation of a one-upmanship remark concerning the relative merits of pinkly-fluff-tailed Mudgie versus the sleekly dark and un-graffitied Fudge.

Rossi decided to beat him to the punch.

“Shut up, Marty.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” He tried for righteous indignation, but, looking at the pastel tail, it morphed into a smirk. “I don’t think words are even necessary at this point.” He took a seat where he could watch both Jack, who was keeping a low profile after the dye debacle by confining himself to the patio, and Rossi, who continued to comb and snip. It was a dicey operation, considering the dog’s tail refused to stay still.

Marty was the personification of smug enjoyment. After enduring Dave’s general glowering, he offered Rossi a philosophical interpretation of recent events.

“Do you believe in karma, Dave?”

Rossi gave him yet another suspicious, sidelong look. Marty tried to project beaming innocence.

“Maybe.”

“Remember laughing at Aaron’s Sharpie spots, Dave? …Well…”

“Shut _up_ , Marty.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

_The worst part is not knowing._

_If I knew the truth, I’d be able to plan a way to handle it…if there’s fallout, I have to plan a way to keep it from hitting Jack._

Hotch swung his legs around, pushing himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Some of what Marty and Dave kept telling him had filtered through simply by dint of repetition. Playing the ‘what if’ game was useless; even counterproductive. But ‘what if’ was Hotch’s second nature. When he was feeling well, at the top of his game, setting him on a case was like setting a pack of greyhounds on a rabbit. His mind sped along multiple trails, decisively considering and discarding a maze of options; each one spawned by a ‘what if.’ In the end, there would be a winner: the choice most likely to end in success with minimal collateral casualties. But now, although the greyhounds were catching individual scents, they were stumbling over their own paws. Instead of shooting through the maze, they were milling in disarray…panicking when unable to pick up a solid trail, or find their way out.

Hotch leaned over his knees, running his hands through his hair; aware of a dizzying sensation; unaware of the flock of cowlicks released by his action.

 _Morgan. I need to talk to Morgan. He’s the point person on all this right now. I need information and he’s the one gathering it._ He shuddered. _Maybe I can help him. Go to him._

Latching onto the possibility of action made Hotch feel a tiny surge of hope. He was always better in command of a situation. Doing something would give him the feeling of having control over this mess again. Spurred on by the growing conviction that he should join Morgan in the field, he made his way to the bathroom.

_Okay…so I’m a little dizzy. That’s likely due to lack of food. I’ll pull myself together and go help Morgan._

But swaying before the mirror over the sink, Hotch had to admit that this particular greyhound, the one bent on finding Morgan, had slipped off-track, lost the scent, and plowed its way into a dead-end of brambles and quicksand. His mottled appearance was mute testimony to the fact that he was still contagious. His sense of civic responsibility wouldn’t let him rampage his way through the public, dispersing viral infection in his wake.

Sighing, his eyes wandered upward. The cowlicks mocked him.

_You look ridiculous. And kinda scary._

Head spinning, Hotch admitted the wisdom of regrouping. He retraced his steps, both to the bed and, in his mind, to the starting point of Morgan.

_Maybe if I could talk to him…call him…_

A quick survey of the room told him Rossi had once again relieved him of his phone. Having found it tucked away in a drawer last time, he was sure it would now be concealed someplace much less accessible. But there were other phones in the Rossi mansion.

Reeling just a little, Hotch set the greyhounds in his mind on the matter…and went in search of a land line.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“What’d you find, Baby Girl?”

“Felicia’s bills are paid monthly by one Lawrence Freemont. I already checked him out. He owns a construction company in Richmond…and, judging by his tax returns, he does very well for himself and two children.”

Morgan kept his eyes on the road, driving toward the town of Tazewell where adolescent Hotch’s medical records had likely provided data entry practice for new Records Department hires.

“What’s the relationship between Freemont and Felicia?”

“Uh…one minute…working…” The sound of Garcia’s technical talents played across the connection like a chorus of metronomes ticking in tandem. “Ah! Here we go…He is h-e-r…grandson!... by a daughter…Madison Campbell, nee Davenport!” Triumph rang in Penelope’s voice. She loved it when the layers of people’s lives parted before her, revealing relationships and histories in tidy, accurate sequences. She loved it even more when she could serve them up to her team within seconds of being asked to do so.

“Thanks, Mama….I’m headed to St. Pete’s in Tazewell. I might stop for the night after that and drive over to Richmond tomorrow. Send me the addresses for both Freemont and Felicia, okay?”

“Uh, sure…but…Derek?...”

Morgan sensed curiosity fulminating just below Garcia’s surface; threatening to explode, possibly causing impromptu wanderings through Hotch’s files lying dormant in her folders.

“Y-e-e-e-s, Penelope?”

“Can you tell me what this is all about? I mean, I _get_ that it’s about Hotch, but…the thing is…I’m sending you off alone to strange people and places and, well…I’d just feel better knowing more…you know…in case I have to ask Emily or Reid to go get you…or find you…or…I mean…you’re on this _alone_. And I hate that.”

Morgan smiled, letting his warm chuckle drift across the miles, finding a home in Penelope’s heart.

“I’d like to, Mama, but it’s not a case. There aren’t any unsubs. I’ll be fine. So, thanks for all your…”

“I know someone hurt Hotch.” Garcia blurted it out before she could change her mind, before diplomacy took over, before the internal censor who normally stood guard between her brain and her tongue even saw it coming.

Morgan let a beat of silence fall, trying to gage the depth of the tech analyst’s intrusion into Hotch’s private business.

“Garcia…did you read his files? The ones you weren’t supposed to?”

“No.” Having expended its pent up energy, her voice grew meek. “I could just tell…by the file size…and because, well…he is how he is and that’d kind of explain…stuff…you know?”

Morgan’s sigh was deep, part exhaustion for a long day, part regret that he couldn’t soothe Garcia by letting her in on the details of his mission. But if he couldn’t share, he could at least reassure.

“Baby Girl, all I can tell you is I’m trying to help Boss-man. Whatever happens, he’s gonna know I had to use your talents along the way. So when he’s well and he’s back at work, maybe he’ll talk to you about it. But you’re gonna hafta let me off the hook, ‘cause it’s not my call…I’m sorry, Garcia.”

Morgan’s tone of genuine remorse was enough to quell any more questions.

“I’m coming up on Tazewell now, Mama. I’ll talk to you soon…and, again…thanks.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Tazewell was a flyspeck on the map of Virginia. But next to the sad environs of Bluefields, it was a thriving metropolis.

 _Energy_ , thought Morgan as he pulled into the parking lot of St. Peter’s Hospital. _There’s life in this place. Maybe not fast-growing, but in comparison, Hotch’s hometown was bleeding out._

 He knew enough to find the Hospital Administrator, and felt only a slight twinge of guilt when he flashed his badge, asking if he could have someone help him access the Record Department’s archives.

“Well, sure, but can’t think what’d be of interest, son.” The head of St. Peter’s was a portly man in his 60s. White-haired and laconic, he enjoyed working past retirement age as long as he could do it at the sedate pace that only a small town could provide.

“It’s research, Mr.….?”

“Swinburn…and it’s Doctor. Still, kind of odd for the FBI to send someone down our way. Don’t think it’s ever happened before.” He ruffled a hand through his thinning hair and shrugged. “Well, now’s as good a time as any. Records Department is this way.”

Swinburn led Morgan down a short corridor that served to underline the small, compact space of the facility. He ushered the agent into a room with four cubicles and only one occupant: a woman who, at first glance, made Morgan think of a weirdly cloned Lucille Ball. The unconvincing red hair, floral housecoat, and 50s style cat-eye glasses made him smile. He could imagine her as an evolutionary precursor to the present-day Garcia.

Morgan nodded at the woman, expecting Swinburn to perform introductions and then leave them to delve into the online files. He was surprised when the man took a seat in front of one of the computers. Gesturing to the agent to pull up a chair, he extracted reading glasses from the pocket of his lab coat and squinted at the screen.

“Now…let me log on and we’ll see if we can find what you need, Mr. Morgan.” He glanced up, grinning at his guest’s confounded expression. “This is a small facility, son. We all pull double duty. Sometimes triple. Occasionally quadruple. So…what are we looking for?”

Morgan blinked, but sat down, edging to where he could look over the man’s shoulder. “I’m looking for records transferred over from Bluefields for a patient named Hotchner.”

Swinburn’s fingers froze on the keyboard. Slowly, frown forming, he turned his head to stare at the man beside him.

“Hotchner? That wouldn’t be _Aaron_ Hotchner, would it?”

Stomach sliding, Morgan felt his own frisson of disbelief. “Yes, it would. Why?”

The Hospital Administrator sat back, still staring. “Second place I ever practiced was in Bluefields. Couldn’t wait to get out of that town. Did my best to get a boy named Aaron out, too.”

He leaned back and crossed his arms, studying the stranger who’d just caused one of his least favorite pieces of the past to resurface.

“You need to tell me why you’re really here…and what connection you have to Aaron Hotchner.”


	87. The Thin Line Between Love and Hate

Morgan gave the Hospital Administrator before him a long, considering look.

_What the hell?_

_Did Hotch touch bases with **everyone** over the age of sixty-five in this whole area? Am I gonna have to prove I’m his friend to everyone I talk to?_ Morgan took a deep breath. _If Hotch was an unsub, I could throw my weight around, or get Garcia to lay open every bit of his accessible past. But…he’s not. And I have to keep this private, and I have to keep the FBI out of it._

_Damn, Hotch, what the hell did you do to make everyone so…I dunno… **protective**!?..._

An abrupt epiphany brought Morgan up short.

_…kind of like the way **I’m** protective of him…_

_But these people did it because they saw a hurt little kid. I’ve only known him as a grown man. It’s different._

But a tiny voice whispered that it really wasn’t.

_We protect him ‘cause he needs it. He still needs it. We just know…Damn…_

Recognizing a kinship of purpose, Morgan gathered his patience, settling in for however long it would take to prove himself worthy of information regarding Aaron Hotchner.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch found a land line in Rossi’s bedroom.

Pulling the phone with him, he took a seat on the bed, back to the door in the hope that his voice wouldn’t project if he was facing away from the hallway leading to the rest of the mansion. Used to the convenience of speed dialing, he hesitated, dredging up Morgan’s number from memory.

Apparently, memory wasn’t as reliable as he’d hoped. His first effort reached a disgruntled female voice, telling him he shouldn’t be calling people during dinnertime and she didn’t care _what_ he was selling.

Hotch apologized to the dial tone after she hung up on him and tried again. He was relieved when he recognized the somewhat distracted ‘Yeah?’ that greeted him.

“Morgan?”

“Hotch!?”

The Unit Chief grinned, falling into the pattern of command he loved so much. “Yeah. Where are you? What’s going on?”

“I…uh…Does Rossi know you’re calling?”

Hotch’s voice hardened. “I don’t need permission to use the phone.”

Over in Tazewell, sitting inches from Dr. Swinburn, Morgan winced…but stuck to his guns. “I’m thinkin’ you do, man. You don’t sound…right.”

“I’m fine. I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine. Now tell me what you’ve found so far.” Hotch had to restrain himself from adding ‘that’s an order.’ Even a little dizzy, he was aware that Morgan was doing him a tremendous favor both by delving into his past, and by exercising discretion.

Morgan glanced at the man sitting beside him, making no effort to hide his interest in the conversation. “Listen, Hotch…I’m with someone right now who knew you when you were growing up…a doctor…and maybe I can call you back when…”

“Is that Aaron Hotchner on the line?” Swinburn spoke loudly enough to be heard by both parties to the call.

Morgan blinked. “Yes, but he’s si…”

“Let me  talk to him.”

“He’s not feeling well. And he’s already had a rough day from a couple brushes with his past. So it’d be better if…”

“Let me talk to him. I’ll know if it’s Aaron.”

Morgan studied the administrator’s eyes, weighing the pros and cons of setting Hotch up for another shock. The voice on the phone decided him.

“Put him on, Morgan. If it’ll help me find what I need…put him on.”

Realizing the futility of protest, Derek handed his phone to Swinburn. When the doctor nodded toward the door, indicating he’d like some privacy, Morgan rose. He gave the Lucille Ball-esque woman another look as he passed by, taking up a position in the hall, just around the corner. Despite the distance, and his voice’s low, confidential tone, the doctor was still audible.

Morgan held his breath, the better to catch every word, even though it was only one side of the conversation.

“Is this Aaron Hotchner?...Yes, well…This is Dr. Swinburn. Do you remember me?”

From the pause and the cautious delivery that followed, Morgan divined that Hotch _didn’t_ recall Swinburn from his Bluefields days.

“There’s a man here from the FBI asking questions about you. You understand that I have to be sure I’m not violating privileged communication?...”

Morgan could imagine Hotch saying that of course he understood, yet with an edge, partly because he didn’t remember this man; partly because he’d bridle at anyone doubting his veracity…even a stranger.

“You may not recall me, but you’d recall a conversation we had. It was a few months after your father passed away…You told me a secret. Something you’d never told anyone else. Do you remember? After your father died?”

The pause was long, and for some reason Morgan though it was painful for both men. But when it was over, when Swinburn resumed speaking, his words were gentle, and almost fond.

“Aaron…Aaron Hotchner…I’m glad it’s you. How are you, son?”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi gave a dejected sigh, standing back to survey the results of his handiwork.

Mudge’s tail was now a more ragged version of its once proud plume. And the shorter hairs made it all the more obvious that the food coloring had penetrated to the skin. If anything, shorn of its silky camouflage, the tail looked even more like a pink barber pole.

Marty’s belly-deep chuckle did nothing to make the situation more palatable.

Rossi bore it with fortitude, sweeping up the Easter-egg pink swatches of dog hair and depositing them in the trash. He decided his best defense was to change the subject.

He raised his brows, tilting his head toward the staircase and Hotch’s room at the top. “So…how were things going up there?”

Marty relented, knowing there would be ample opportunity to revel in Mudgie’s pinkness in days…even weeks…to come.

“He’s not thinking straight. Panicking, over-imagining worst case scenarios. That little hamster wheel you talk about is spinning a bit _too_ fast now, and in a less than healthy direction.” The doctor sighed. “I don’t like that his temperature went up half a degree either.”

Rossi paused, his concerned look inviting elaboration.

“Dave, I think he’s a very emotional man who keeps himself on a tight reign. It’s bad for his health. We all know how that kind of stress can result in ulcers, impact one’s cardiovascular system, resulting in a whole host of physical problems. And right now I think his concern about his past mental health, and the unexpected contact with that teacher from his childhood have conspired to let his fever renew its grip on him.”

Rossi straightened, his own absorption in the beauty of canine dignity taking a backseat.

“I better go check on him.”

“Well, bring him that tray I prepared earlier; before Jack’s artistry reared its ugly head. I’ll keep an eye on the son, if you’ll get the father to eat. It’s reaching a point where it’s just plain unacceptable. If he doesn’t turn it around and take some nutrition, I might even be tempted to threaten him with hospitalization…which’ll upset him…which’ll kick his fever higher…which’ll stall his appetite even more…” The doctor tossed his hands up in a show of frustration.

Rossi pulled the foil-wrapped tray from the fridge. After heating up the items that required it, he began tracing a careful path up to Hotch’s room. Eyes on a bowl of soup he was trying to keep from sloshing over its rim, he didn’t notice the light indicating a line in use as he passed the phone in the foyer.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi made his way up the stairs, soup un-sloshed.

He edged his way into Hotch’s room. The bed was rumpled, but empty. A quick check told him Aaron wasn’t in the bathroom.

Perplexed, and feeling a faint stirring of anxiety, he began a room-by-room search. When he heard the rumble of Hotch’s voice coming from his own master suite, Rossi frowned. It would be just like the man to try and involve himself in whatever his team was working on. Especially if his thoughts weren’t quite cogent, as Marty suggested.

With professional stealth, Rossi nudged his bedroom door open. Hotch was sitting on the far side of the bed, back to the door, talking at low volume. Dave’s plan was to interrupt, wrest the phone from his friend’s grip and escort him back to where the tray of food awaited him.

But he froze when he heard the soft, reluctant words that he knew were dredged from one of the deepest places of Aaron’s past. A place whose depths could swamp his fragile recovery.

“I remember…That was you, Dr. Swinburn?...I remember…

“…I said…I said…in spite of everything,…I said…

“I said…I loved my father…I loved him…I hated him…and I loved him…”

As Hotch’s shoulders began to shake, Rossi moved to his side.


	88. Haven

Rossi slid in beside Hotch, draping one arm across the man’s shoulders, feeling tremors shuddering through them.

With his free hand, despite resistance, he pulled the receiver from Hotch’s grip. His voice was gruff with concern, challenging whoever was on the other end; whoever had wrung such a hurtful confession from Aaron.

“Who is this?!”

A beat of silence told him whoever it was hadn’t expected intrusion. The response, when it came, was calm, firm, and almost placating.

“This is Dr. Swinburn from St. Peter’s Hospital in Tazewell, Virginia. I was speaking with Aaron Hotchner. Who’s this?”

“Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi of the FBI.” Rossi’s voice still rang with challenge. A doctorate didn’t give anyone the right to upset Hotch…not without a reason, the explanation of which he was waiting to hear.

“Well. Aaron seems to be surrounded by FBI agents. I hope he’s not in trouble?”

“Aaron Hotchner _is_ an FBI agent, Dr. Swinburn. And what’d’you mean by ‘surrounded?’”

“He _is_?” The note of gratified surprise that crept in gave Rossi a modicum of reassurance that this might, after all, be a friendly force in Hotch’s life. “Well, I’ll be…But, I guess that shouldn’t come as such a surprise. Children like him often grow up to take on positions that’ll help them fix the ills of the world.”

Rossi thought that was going a bit too far without a little more background regarding this man’s credentials and his relationship to Hotch. He suspected he knew the answer, but he felt the need to demonstrate control by demanding a response to his question. “What did you mean when you said he was ‘surrounded by FBI agents?’”

“I’m sorry. You have to understand…I’m surprised and _very_ pleased to hear from Aaron. Clearly, you’re a friend of his. And now I guess the other agent here, a Mr. Morgan, is a friend as well?”

Satisfied, Rossi sighed. “Yes, he is. If he’s available, I’d like to talk to...”

“Dave, no. Please.” Hotch struggled against Rossi’s tight, one-armed hug, twisting to face the older man. “I need to talk to him. Please.”

Rossi knew he meant Swinburn, not Morgan. Having just discussed with Marty how detrimental stress was to Hotch’s general recovery, his first instinct was to shield him from any more; at least until he’d made a little more progress against his fever. But the dark, pleading look in Hotch’s eyes made Rossi reconsider.

“Aaron, are you sure? It might be better, while you’re under the weather, to let me or Morgan act as buffers to whatever this guy has to say.” When Hotch’s regard remained steady, certain, Rossi tried once more to get him to let someone else stand strong in his place. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough for one day?”

“I have to know. Please.” He held out his hand for the receiver.

“Okay. But I’m staying here. I’m not leaving you.”

A small, sad smile touched Hotch’s lips. “You never do, Dave. I count on it.”

Renewing his hold around the younger man’s shoulders, Rossi let Hotch have the phone.

xxxxxxx

 

As soon as Morgan heard his name, he abandoned the charade of granting Swinburn privacy. Without explanation or apology, he returned to the doctor’s cubicle, pulling his chair even closer than before.

Swinburn gave him an inquisitive glance, but when he saw the determined look in the agent’s eyes, he kept silent. _He’s on guard. Even miles away from wherever Aaron is, this man’s keeping vigil._ His brows rose for a moment. _Whatever kind of man he’s become, Aaron commands loyalty._ Swinburn felt a small frisson of pride for the boy he’d once known.

He turned away from the FBI agent at his side, concentrating on Aaron’s words.

This close, Morgan could hear both sides of the conversation. He focused his eyes on the floor, intent on catching every nuance.

“Aaron, I’m sorry you’re still hurting over…everything. But you work for the Justice Department! You’re an agent! I can’t tell you how good that makes me feel.” Swinburn tried to shift gears with delicacy. “So…how are _you_ feeling these days, son? Your friends say you’re having a hard time…”

Hotch sounded ragged, and a little fragile. “I have to ask you something, Dr. Swinburn. It’s important.”

Rossi’s throat tightened along with the arm around Hotch’s shoulders. _Please let him get the answers he wants. And please let them be ones he can live with. Please._

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t remember too much, which kind of bothers me. So, I need to ask you about…back then.”

“I’ll answer anything I can. Aaron, you don’t sound good. What is it?”

“Okay. Here goes. Was I at any time…did I…” He tried to breathe, but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate, allowing him only the shallowest intake. The question emerged as a gasp. “Was I ever… _institutionalized_? Ever?”

Swinburn heard the dread leaking over the line. His heart squeezed in sympathy.

“No, Aaron. You were never committed to an institution.” He let the perceptible sigh of relief from his former patient play out before continuing. “However, I _was_ instrumental in having you sent away.”

“Where? I only get flashes, Doctor. But I know it wasn’t boarding school. That’s what my mother always told me: that it was boarding school. But it wasn’t. Please…tell me what happened. Where was I?...and why?”

“Are you sure you want to get into this now, Aaron? It sounds as though it might be a good idea for you to get some rest. Your friend Mr. Morgan said you’re not feeling well.”

“Please. I _need_ to know.”

Swinburn expelled a long sigh of his own, gathering his memories. He wanted to give this man who sounded so conflicted as accurate an account of the missing time  in his early years as possible.

“Aaron, your father moved out of the house you shared with your mother and brother in 1978. You were fourteen. I remember, because that was the first time I saw you. Your mother brought you in all bruised and battered. I’ll never forget you, because you were smiling.

“I suspected you’d been abused, but when I asked you about it, that smile just grew a little wider.

“It was the chilliest expression I’d ever seen on a boy’s face. But you wouldn’t give any details; wouldn’t talk about how you got hurt.”

Swinburn ran a hand over his face, shaking his head. “I learned later that your father was responsible. I also learned that he had a hold on that town the like of which I’ve never seen…before or since. Almost everybody warned me about going up against Mr. Hotchner. Apparently, I’d end up in court on trumped up charges that would either cost me my license, or make any insurance company providing malpractice coverage drop me like a ton of bricks.”

Swinburn sighed, eyes distant as Bluefields and the Hotchner family came alive for him again.

“Regardless of what everyone told me, I couldn’t let it be. I went looking for your father. That’s when I found out he’d left your house. That’s when I put two and two together and realized you must’ve stood up to him…a man twice your size…” His voice broke, but recovered. “You were a skinny, little string-bean of a kid, but you had the oldest eyes. I began to understand how they got that way.

“Anyway, I thought your troubles were over with your Dad living somewhere else. I kept an eye out, but you didn’t come in anymore for injuries. I’d checked your records and was…” He bit his lip, shaking his head. “… _outraged_ at what the others had turned a blind eye to. Outraged…But things seemed to quiet down.”

Rossi watched Hotch from a distance of mere inches. As the story progressed, he placed the hand that wasn’t wrapped around the younger man’s shoulder, against his chest…ready to massage the spot that would calm him, if necessary.

Swinburn paused, pulling himself back to the present. “Aaron? At any point you want to stop, you tell me, you hear? Aaron?”

“He’s okay.” Rossi answered, voice raised to carry over the phone. “I’ve got him. If we need to stop, I’ll let you know.”

The doctor shifted in his seat, readying himself for the next part of his tale. “Well, time passed. Your father did, too. In 1981. I’d been looking into getting out of Bluefields for some time…ever since I met you, and learned what kind of town it really was.  It was a year later, 1982, that I attached myself to the Multinational Force that was put together to serve in the war in Lebanon. I was ready to go, but something made me look for you, just to be sure, just to check that you were alright.

“Tell you the truth, I hoped you’d recovered and were just another local kid  with a small-town future all laid out and decided. You were eighteen and I figured if you hadn’t made yourself a place in Bluefields, you’d be ready to set out on your own…but…you weren’t.”

Rossi felt Hotch tense. Even if he hadn’t been committed anywhere, he was wondering about his mental outlook. Rossi’s hand on his chest moved ever so slightly. Hotch took a deep breath, easing just a little.

Swinburn’s voice had a sorrowful undercurrent when it continued.

“I found you, Aaron, but I couldn’t leave you in that town. They were calling you a ghost, a wraith. You went through the motions of life…” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “…and even so, you did better in school than most. But the feeling I got was that the whole town wanted you gone. They were ashamed of what they’d let happen to a child. They’d closed their eyes to it. And the only way they could live with themselves now was to _keep_ their eyes closed. Tight. I knew you’d never be able to pull out of the pain and the shock on your own. You might have done it if people had treated you like a normal kid, but they couldn’t. You were being punished for who _they_ were.

“I couldn’t leave you. Just couldn’t.

“But I had to get out and I really wanted that trip overseas…to get as far away from Bluefields as possible.”

Morgan watched Swinburn close his eyes for a moment, and appreciated the heart of this man whose conscience outweighed the collective one of the town that was ready to sacrifice Hotch; the dirty, little secret they’d hide away rather than try to fix, because that would mean admitting culpability.

“In 1982 they were just beginning to create a place for young people who needed extra help to get back on track. Mostly, they were kids who had behavioral problems. You weren’t like that, Aaron. I want to stress that: you weren’t innately damaged. _Outside_ forces were to blame for your hurts.

“So I talked to some colleagues in Wisconsin, at The Behavioral Center for Children and Adolescents. And they understood you needed a safe place to heal. Someplace where nothing and no one would remind you of your father. Someplace where you could begin to let some kindness into your life. Someplace where you could rest and let the pain drain out of you. Would’ve been a shame to lose what I could tell was a keen mind and a gentle soul that only wanted a little care to grow into something that might be truly remarkable.”

Swinburn glanced at Morgan, seeing a devotion to Aaron that expressed itself with professional tenacity. He imagined the other agent, Rossi, who was with Aaron was also drawn to him to an extent that wasn’t common in the workplace. _And he’s a member of the FBI; an elite force in itself._

“So, Aaron, you were never committed. Your sanity was never in doubt. I sent you someplace safer and better, and I hoped it would work out for you. And from what I can tell, it did.

“Little Aaron Hotchner grew into someone truly remarkable, didn’t he...”


	89. Saving Face

Rossi felt the physical change in Hotch.

At Swinburn’s verification that his past record was free of institutionalization, so much tension drained out of him that he slumped within the older man’s embrace.

_Maybe this’ll be the turning point. Maybe his health and his outlook will improve from here on._

Rossi was about to suggest that they end this session and let Hotch get back to the business of recuperation when he felt the muscles under his touch go rigid again.

“Dr. Swinburn, why don’t I remember all this?” Hotch still had questions. He wasn’t ready to call it quits when the possible source of answers was so readily available. “I get flashes of things. And once you started talking, some of them resolved into memories. But why did I forget so much in the first place?”

The pause that followed reflected the doctor’s attempt to sort through possibilities versus probabilities.

“Aaron, I wasn’t around. I’d need to bring in someone more versed in psychology to talk to you before I could give you my professional assessment… _but_ …if it’ll help you get past this stumbling block, I can make a few guesses. Still, you have to understand… _all_ of you listening have to understand…that what I say isn’t definitive in any way. Agreed?”

Hotch’s voice transmitted his grimace of wry humor. “Don’t worry, Doctor. I won’t hold you to your words. I’m not planning on any law suit. Although I _was_ an attorney for a time.”

On the other end, Morgan could almost see the thought bubble forming over Swinburn’s head: _Dear God…another Hotchner lawyer…_ He grinned. Leaning in closer, he whispered for the doctor’s ears only, “Really…don’t worry. He doesn’t do that anymore .”

Swinburn shook off his momentary aversion, reminding himself that it was Hotchner _Sr_. who used the law as a tool to browbeat his way through life. That, plus a surfeit of money, enabled his bullying. Not all attorneys were despicable, manipulative villains. Although sometimes Swinburn had his doubts. He spared a cynical glance for Morgan before continuing.

“First, I have a question for you, Aaron. If you had a child…”

Morgan nudged him, shoulder to shoulder. “He does. A son.”

“Oh.” The doctor’s brows rose. “Well, congratulations, Aaron. So, if your _son_ needed counseling, if he’d been through something traumatic…would you be ashamed of his need?”

A long pause from the other end of the line filled Swinburn with regret. He didn’t want to think that Aaron would deny a child care because of an outdated prejudice against mental illness. He was beginning to draw his own disappointed conclusions in the resounding silence when Morgan once again nudged him. But this time the agent motioned for the doctor to move a little farther away from the phone.

Morgan’s whisper was as quietly private as he could manage. “Doc, that already happened. Not Hotch’s fault. His son lost his Mom. Hotch lost…a lot…too.”

Swinburn’s eyes closed for a moment in sympathy. _There’s no end of tragedy in this world, but does it have to plague one person throughout his entire life? Not fair…just not fair._

 He turned back to the phone. “Aaron, I’m sorry if I touched a nerve. I’d like to know what you’ve been going through, but for right now, let’s get your immediate questions answered as best we can and then send you off to rest. I’ll give your friend Morgan my card and you can call me any time and we can continue.”

He took a breath and approached the point he’d wanted to make from a different direction.

“What I was trying to say, Aaron, is that back when I sent you away, there was a lot more ignorance and suspicion surrounding the spectre of mental conditions than there is now. And in that benighted, little berg where you lived, it was as rampant as the racism that most people accepted as part of their daily lives.

“I think your mother hid the fact that you’d been sent someplace to regain your footing, your emotional balance, and started the fantasy of boarding school to explain your absence to the community. Everything I’m saying here is a guess…but they’re educated guesses. Still, bear in mind that I could be wrong. And don’t think too harshly of your mother…but I could imagine her indoctrinating you with the belief that it would be best never to speak of that Behavioral Center as anything other than a boarding school.

“I don’t know what shape you were in when you returned, Aaron, but if you were still recovering, still somewhat in shock and, well… _malleable_ …I could understand your adopting what your mother put forward as the truth.

“If it set up yet another inner conflict in you, when you were just not able to handle any new ones…you might have repressed your time in Wisconsin entirely.”

Swinburn took a deep breath, glancing at Morgan by his side, hoping the people who surrounded Aaron now were able to offer support rather than censure. So many things still carried a stigma; their acceptance nothing more than politically correct lip service. He hoped his explanation would give comfort without stirring up prejudicial attitudes.

“The point is, Aaron, it’s all in the past. If you need to know reasons before you can finally lay it all to rest, then use that one. Move past it. Especially if you have a son of your own. Especially if he ever needs the same chance, the same care you were given.”

Another long pause followed the doctor’s words. It was broken by Hotch’s rumbling, but weary, baritone.

“Thank you, Dr. Swinburn. Not just for this, but for…you know…all that you did. I had no idea. Thank you.”

The doctor released breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, waiting for Aaron’s response; for his verdict on actions taken so long ago, but the repercussions of which still echoed through a man’s soul.

“I couldn’t leave you, Aaron. Not with those people. I couldn’t let you fade to nothing, like the ghost they claimed you to be. I hope it was the right thing to do. I suspect it was, but I’d like to meet you someday. See for myself. If you’re amenable, of course.”

This time there was no long pause.

“I’d like that, Doctor. I really would.”

Swinburn smiled as he signed off. “That’s enough for now. Your friends say you’re under the weather, so go get some rest. Take care of yourself, Aaron….And thank you.”

“Thank _me_? For what? I haven’t done anything.” Hotch’s voice embodied genuine bewilderment.

“Yes, you have. You grew up. And it sounds as though you did it with grace and courage. Now, go raise that boy of yours to be just like his father.”

Hotch nodded, finding words eluded him. Drained, but peacefully so, he handed the phone to Rossi.

 

xxxxxxx

 

 

Once Swinburn had said his goodbyes, Morgan motioned, indicating he wanted to talk to Rossi himself. The doctor handed over the phone, saying he’d be in his office, if anything more was needed.

Morgan kept his voice low, hoping to shield Hotch from what he had to say.

“Rossi, have you talked to Garcia?”

“I know she left me a message to call her, but…uh…no…I’ve been kind of busy with, uh, _other_ stuff.” Visions of Mudgie’s pink tail wagging in pastel splendor wafted through his mind’s eye. “I’ll call her as soon as I get Hotch settled in. He looks kind of spent.”

“Don’t bother. I told her I’d take care of it…” Morgan spoke as softly as he could. “It’s about Felicia. But sounds like Hotch’s had enough. When you’re done with him, give me a call, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure. Talk to you later.”

Rossi sighed. If Morgan was endorsing secrecy, it couldn’t be good news. And eventually Hotch would have to be told. But there would be no more brushes with the past until food and rest had intervened. Rossi steered his friend back to his own bed.

Placing the cooling tray of food before him, Rossi stood back, assessing the man’s mood.

“How’re you doing, Aaron? Do you feel better knowing you were never committed? And your record’s clean?”

Hotch leaned back against the headboard, eyes distant, speculative. “I do. That scared me more than anything else…so, yeah…I feel better.”

“Maybe because it means you’re not as ‘broken’ as you thought? Maybe because that’s where the whole idea of being ‘broken’ came from?”

Hotch studied Rossi’s eyes. “Maybe…maybe…I have to think about it some more.”

“Well, not today. Eat, or Marty’ll be up here reading you the riot act. Then, rest.”

“Where’s Jack?” There was a yearning expression on the Unit Chief’s face. It made one side of Rossi’s lips quirk upward in barely suppressed humor.

“You want Jack?”

“Always.”

Rossi nodded. “Eat. I’ll send him up, but you have to eat. Seriously.”

Sensing a bargain was being struck, Hotch focused on his meal, determined to accomplish whatever would bring him his son.


	90. Leopard Resurgence

Rossi gave Hotch a good, long time alone with his tray of food.

He dawdled over getting Jack ready for bed. He shared a drink with Marty. He tidied up in the kitchen, giving Mudgie disconsolate glances. The advent of twilight tended to deepen the tinted tail, achieving a roseate shade that convinced Rossi he would likely be walking his dog at a different time of day…or full night…

“I don’t know why it concerns you so much, Dave.” Marty tilted his head, observing the animal from different angles. “If it were me, I’d flaunt it. Tie a matching ribbon around it. Fly in the face of convention. Make everyone think it’s an intentional fashion statement.”

Rossi’s eye’s narrowed. “Mudge and I don’t _do_ fashion statements. And, Marty?”

“Hmmm?”

“Shut up.”

Rossi huffed off to give Jack his bath, followed by chuckles and the doctor’s gleeful sputtering into his Scotch.

 

xxxxxxx

 

It had been an eventful, stressful day.

Stomach full, but not overly so, Hotch let himself sink into the comfort of Rossi’s Egyptian cotton sheets and feather pillows. His mind drifted over images and snippets of conversation. _The more I find out about myself, the less…different…I feel._

Discovering reasons for the things he didn’t understand went a long way toward making those things acceptable. He especially liked Rossi’s suggestion that feeling ‘broken’ might have stemmed from the blankness in his past, coupled with his inability to explain it.

_I’m okay…I’m okay…I’m **really** okay…_

It was the first time he’d ever believed in his own mantra. The words that he offered in a reflexive state of denial were beginning to transform into hopeful acceptance.

Hotch closed his eyes and waited for Jack.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Freshly damp from his bath, Jack trotted to Hotch’s room.

Despite the food coloring _faux pas_ , he was feeling triumphant. Instead of pajamas, he’d talked Poppi into letting him sleep in boxers and a t-shirt, arguing that that’s what Daddy wore. Feeling quite grown-up, he entered the room and knew in an instant that Daddy had fallen asleep.

Jack had learned early that sleep was a precious commodity for his father. Disturbing him was only permissible in the event of an emergency, like burglars in the house, or monsters in the closet…or under the bed. Sometimes thunder and lightning qualified. Or dreaming scary things. Or just being lonely. Since Mommy had gotten her angel’s wings, the rules had become a bit lax, encompassing whole realms of disturbances previously excluded.

He stood at the side of the bed and studied the long, strong body he hoped to emulate one day. The body had scars. Jack frowned. He needed another look at them now that Poppi had explained they were more than just the markings of a hero.

Jack clambered up the side, crawling with as little extraneous bouncing as he could to where Daddy lay on his back, one arm flung upward, crooked above his head in sleepy abandon. The position stretched the lean torso, letting Jack see the ridges and indentations of Daddy’s ribs jutting through the thin fabric of his shirt…a shirt that was already rucked up a little on one side…the side nearest Jack…

Frowning with the effort to be careful, he worked the t-shirt up as far as it would go. The bedside lamp was still on. He studied the shiny, white markings lacing his father’s skin.

Poppi had said they came at great cost: fear and pain.

Jack couldn’t imagine Daddy afraid of anything. He was the bravest, strongest man in the world. Even when he was sick. It bothered him to think of his father being scared. Poppi was probably wrong. But just in case he wasn’t…

Jack reached out a hand and laid it against the longest, thickest scar. The one that ran down the center.

_It’s okay, Daddy. Don’t be afraid. I’m here…It’s okay… It’s okay…_

As gently as when he’d held a baby chick once, when some were brought to school, Jack patted his hero’s scars, certain that his touch would chase all the badness in them away.

Because that’s what love could do. He was sure of it.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch became aware of a feather-light caress.

Recognition of the small hand that was performing the maneuver was almost immediate. He worked hard at keeping his face relaxed…feigning sleep…biding his time…waiting for just the right moment…

But he had to press his lips together to keep them from quirking into the smile they wanted to form.

The leopard is an observant species. The cub no less than the adult. Jack’s eyes narrowed at the thinning line of his father’s mouth. He became more suspicious when one side twitched, but was brought under control with quick, masterful suppression.

Things were not what they seemed.

Hotch felt the caress…change. Jack was drumming his fingers against Daddy’s stomach, the muscles of which had given a slight jerk; a manful effort to avoid laughter. Still, the drumming was clearly disdainful of Hotch’s subterfuge.

The jig was up.

With the regal roar of his kind, the Chief of the Raspberry Leopards loomed upward, flipping his importunate cub over. He could have fit the whole paw with its disrespectfully drumming fingers in his mouth. But he didn’t know where the paw had been. So he settled for grabbing the small arm between his teeth, worrying it back and forth to the accompaniment of shrieking giggles.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Downstairs, Rossi had been about to call Morgan. Both he and Marty raised their brows at the sounds echoing down the staircase. Mudge and Fudge lifted their heads from their paws, ears pricking, furry foreheads wrinkled in dismay.

“They’re at it again.”

“You know, Dave…the way things work in the wild kingdom, one day the little one’ll pin the big one. It’ll give them both one of the biggest surprises of their lives.”

Rossi grinned. “When that day comes, my friend, I hope to be on hand. And if the little one needs just a bit more help to keep the big one down…he’ll have it.”

Marty’s own smile was wide. “These youngsters…they don’t realize how short their time as king of the jungle really is.”

“Well…so long as they enjoy it.”

From the ongoing roars and shrieks, it was clear the Tribe was enjoying itself very much indeed.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was exhausted sooner than he’d expected.

He didn’t have the energy necessary to subdue a boisterous cub for as long as the cub wished to be subdued. Not yet anyway. The Tribe settled for lying on their sides, facing each other, nose to nose.

Hotch watched solemnity edge its way into his son’s eyes, replacing the glitter of good humor.

“Poppi says it hurt when you got your scars, Daddy.”

Hotch’s own eyes went dark with recollection. And a frisson of resentment. If anyone explained such things to Jack, it should be his father. But he wouldn’t lie now that the issue had surfaced.

“It did hurt. But remember we talked about different kinds of pain?” He waited for the expected nod. “Well, that’s the type of pain that goes away. They don’t hurt anymore.”

Two sets of dark eyes searched each other.

“He said you got scared, too.” Jack took a breath. “I didn’t believe that part.”

Hotch frowned, trying to follow five-year-old logic. “Why not?”

“‘Cause you’re brave. You don’t get scared.”

The Leopard Chief edged closer, forehead touching forehead. “Everyone gets scared, Jack.” Seeing the disbelief that still lingered in his son’s grave regard, he explained as simply as he could. “Being scared…and still doing what needs to be done…that’s what brave is. Otherwise, being brave would be easy. It’s not. It’s hard. Understand?”

“Y-e-a-h…”

“Why were you and Poppi talking about this?”

Jack ducked his head, breaking eye contact. “‘Cause I did something.”

“What?”

“I copied your scars.”

Hotch hooked a finger under the hem of the child’s t-shirt, pulling it up. He was relieved when he didn’t see a replica of his personal nightmare on skin he hoped would never suffer such insults. But, in the dim light, he could tell there was a slight reddening. Familiar with the aftereffects of trying to remove his Sharpie leopard spots, he assumed the scar discussion had taken place while Rossi was rubbing the copies off of his son.

On impulse, he leaned down and brushed his lips over the baby-soft skin, making Jack giggle and breaking the serious mood. When he pulled back, there was still concern in his expression.

“Why’d you want scars anyway?”

“‘Cause school’s coming. And we won’t get to be like this anymore.” Jack’s eyes shimmered, voice lowering to a whisper. “No more Raspberry Leopards, Daddy.”

“But we have the spots we can draw.”

“They don’t last. No more leopards.”

Chief and cub stared at each other, unblinking.

“Wait here.”

Hotch levered himself out of bed. Making his way in bare feet, he padded out the door, down the hall and into Rossi’s room. Earlier, when he’d been on the phone, he’d noticed a pad of paper and some pens kept handy for note-taking. He grinned, eyes tilting, when he found what he wanted lying among the writing utensils.

A Sharpie. Red. New. Full of vibrant ink.

Back in his own room, he pulled Jack’s shirt off. Frowning with concentration, he drew a small, perfect, indelible leopard spot on his son’s shoulder; where Jack could see it if he turned his head to the side. When he was done, Hotch pulled his own shirt off. Lying down to make his larger shoulder easier to reach, he passed the Sharpie to his son.

“You should be pretty good at this by now.” He gave a growl that ended in a grin. “Yourrrrrr turrrrrn…

“…Spot me, Jack.”


	91. Call

Once the upstairs cacophony of romping leopards quieted down, Rossi remembered he’d been about to call Morgan.

Stressful as it had been, he considered the day successful.

So far, anyway.

He hoped Derek wasn’t harboring some ill news that would change that, but he suspected if it was something Garcia had pawned off on her favorite Dark Knight…it couldn’t be good. When the call connected, he could hear a television playing in the background. And it took Morgan a moment to swallow something before he spoke.

“Hey, Rossi. How’s Hotch doing? After, you know…all that.”

“Hey, Derek.” The older agent’s spirits rose. If Morgan was settled someplace for the night with food and T.V., it was safe to assume no emergency situation existed. _Then again, Hotch is the one with appetite issues. Morgan’s stomach is ironclad in comparison._

“Hotch’s doing fine. A lot better, actually. Looks like erasing some of the blanks in his past helped. Without anything concrete, he was filling them in with his worst fears; on the road to turning them into self-fulfilling liabilities.”

Morgan’s sigh was heavy with sympathy. “Yeah. I mean, I _know_ he had a hard time…Hell, we _both_ know it. But… _wow_ …ya know? Makes you wonder how much one guy can take before he breaks.”

“I know.”

Morgan’s voice turned tentative, unsure as to whether he was trespassing or not. “So…I heard Swinburn when he was testing Hotch to see if he was the same kid he’d once known. Asked him about a secret.”

Rossi knew what was coming. “I think that’s where I must’ve come in.” He took a deep breath in remembrance. “It was pretty gut-wrenching.”

“Well…thing is, Rossi…I didn’t hear what it was.”

The older man knew Morgan was curious. _Hell, who wouldn’t be?_ But Morgan was almost as respectful of Hotch as he was protective. He wouldn’t press for information merely to slake curiosity. Not if it meant breaching a confidence.

“The secret…” Rossi sighed, choosing his words with care. “It was an understandable one…at least in my book. And something I intend to discuss with Hotch before he leaves here. But, Derek, it’s not _my_ secret, so I don’t have the right to divulge it. Sorry.”

“‘S okay, man. Just thought I’d ask.” His voice took on a brighter tone. “There’s something else. I’ve been thinking, Rossi. I’ve got enough of a picture of what Hotch went through to start putting some pieces together for myself. Kinda explain some things that bothered me.”

Rossi was glad to abandon the question of secrets. And he welcomed any change in subject that brought out a touch of enthusiasm in Morgan. “What kinds of things?”

“Well…remember when Hotch first came back? After Foyet stabbed him?”

“I don’t think any of us will forget that chapter of Hotch’s life.”

“But remember the case? Darrin Call? The guy who went ballistic and took out all those people in the pharmacy? Then wandered off?”

“Sure I remember. What about him?”

Vestiges of anger dredged up from the past still clung to Morgan’s words. “Hotch scared the hell out of me, man. I thought he’d gone suicidal. Putting himself in a hostage situation…going into it solo. Like he _wanted_ something to happen to him. That’s what I thought.”

“I know. You still sound a little…uh,… _annoyed_ about it, Derek. _Irate_ , even.”

“Thing is…I’d never seen Hotch that way. And I figured it was all because of Foyet. That Hotch didn’t care if he lived or died, because his son was out of his life, and he had no idea when or if he’d ever get him back.”

Rossi frowned, unsure where this was leading. “It hit Hotch right in the heart. Jack’s the most important thing in his world. You know that.”

“Yeah, but now…now that I know more about his past…I don’t think that’s what it was; why Hotch was acting like that. I don’t even know if _he_ realizes what was going on in his own mind.”

“Not following you, Morgan.” Having just settled Hotch’s suspicions about the integrity of his own mental health, Rossi wasn’t anxious to trek back into assumptions and suppositions about it.

“I don’t think he was suicidal, Rossi. I think he connected with Call because Call couldn’t remember _his_ childhood either. He had big, gaping holes and had to be sent into therapy and counseling. For God’s sake, he was even on antipsychotics. I think on some really deep level, Hotch reacted to what he saw as his own past surfacing.” Morgan took a deep breath. “I think Hotch either saw himself in Call, or was afraid of having been like Call…or of becoming like Call. Subconsciously.”

A long pause ensued, during which Rossi turned the theory over, testing it from all sides. _It has some merit…But no real bearing on where we stand now._ He shook his head. They couldn’t help putting the pieces together, solving the puzzles, even when doing so didn’t necessarily impact the current situation. _Profilers. Morgan’s one of the best. He can’t stop doing it…can’t let it go until he’s investigated every possible permutation._

“Rossi?” Concern edged the younger agent’s voice. “I know it doesn’t change anything from back then, but…it’s interesting…ya know?”

Hearing some thumping, wrestling-type sounds overhead, Rossi smiled. The leopards were still on the warpath. “I know, Derek. But, be that as it may, I think Hotch might’ve reached a turning point. He’s finally eating. Sounds as though he and Jack are roughhousing as we speak.”

Morgan chuckled. “That’s good. Sometimes I think he turns into a kid again around Jack. Kinda makes up for some of the times he didn’t get to be one.”

Rossi smiled. He’d come to a similar conclusion. “So anyway, what’d you want to talk about that Garcia didn’t?”

“Oh…yeah…”

The T.V. was muted. The rustling of what Rossi imagined to be fast-food wrappers made him envision Morgan sweeping the detritus of his meal away in favor of notes he’d made pertaining to whatever Felicia-related issue Garcia preferred to avoid.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch and Jack had adjourned to the bathroom.

Shirts off, the father held the son in the crook of his arm so they could compare their respective handiwork reflected in the mirror hanging over the sink. Hotch had to admit, the matching, red, leopard spots…one each, in almost the exact same shoulder location…were unmistakable signs of brotherhood.

A small palm rested on Hotch’s skin, rubbing with experimental intent.

“It won’t come off?” Jack was anxious about the big picture. He wanted assurance that the Spotted Tribe of the Raspberry Leopards would last indefinitely.

“Well…maybe eventually…” Hotch saw the tiniest touch of alarm enter his Buddy’s eyes. “…but we can always, you know, _refresh_ them.”

“I want it to last _forever_ , Daddy!”

“Hmmmmm….Well, tell you what: we can keep them up…you know…re-draw them whenever they start to fade…and, when you’re eighteen, if you still want one, we’ll get tattoos. You and me. Together.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Hotch looked down at the eyes as dark as his own; tilting upward like the continuation of a smile, just as his own did; brimming with adoration and conviction…and trust in Daddy’s promises.

He smiled, pressing his lips against his son’s baby-fine hair.

_Oh Lord…I’m getting a tattoo. In twelve-and-a-half years, I’m getting a tattoo._


	92. Secret

Morgan pushed the crumpled wrappers from two double cheeseburgers off the bed, letting them drift to the floor.

After exchanging contact information with the doctor in Tazewell, he’d wanted some time behind the wheel to think over a day filled with Hotch-centric information. After putting a lengthy stretch of road behind him, he’d taken a motel room about thirty miles outside Richmond. When Rossi called, Morgan was polishing off the remnants of a Burger King repast.

He’d shared some of his observations, particularly one that helped him understand…but not feel much better about…Hotch’s behavior when he’d first returned to the field after Foyet’s initial attack.

Morgan agreed with Rossi that it didn’t have any bearing on the issues Hotch was dealing with at the moment, but Morgan saw these snippets of insight in a different light. He tucked his boss’ seeming lack of concern for his own safety away where he could revisit it at leisure. Morgan liked to be able to predict his teammates’ actions. Especially Hotch’s. It made it possible to anticipate the man’s movements and thereby cover him better.

Morgan was also curious about whatever Hotch’s secret was. But he wouldn’t push. He’d found the best strategy that would grant access to Boss-man’s mind was gentle, persistent repetition.

When Haley had left him, Hotch had kept it to himself. But he’d been unable to conceal the stress and tension her departure had generated in him. Morgan had prized it out by waiting until they were alone on the jet. No new case was pending. Everyone else was asleep. Morgan had kept very still and quiet, using the tactics one would when approaching a wild animal.

Hotch had been evasive, deflective, stubborn. But, with soft-spoken words and diligence, Morgan had finally pulled the sad news from him. _I couldn’t do anything about it…but just getting him to let it out helped. At least, I think so. Guy carries too much inside. Eats him up. Part of why his stomach’s a mess._

Each small secret, each tiny admission, was added to Morgan’s portrait of his leader. It helped in protecting him. It also had the unexpected side effect of making Morgan care for him as more than just a boss. Collecting the weaknesses, the frailties, the hurts, and seeing the strength with which they were handled…although sometimes Morgan disagreed with the methods Hotch used…brought out a brotherly love that Morgan missed elsewhere in his life.

So knowing Hotch had another secret…one Rossi termed ‘gut-wrenching’…was like throwing down a gauntlet. Morgan knew he’d learn it sooner or later. He didn’t need to push. All he needed was to get Hotch alone and let him feel safe enough to let go of a little more of the seemingly endless pain he carried inside.

But for now, Morgan regretted the possibility of adding to Hotch’s hurts as he told Rossi about Felicia Davenport.

“Garcia says she has Alzheimer’s, Rossi. I think it’s advanced…end stage. She hasn’t spoken for a really long time.”

“Well…” The older agent’s sigh was deep, resigned. “At least we know what happened to her; where she is.”

“Not really. There’s a lot of time unaccounted for between when she left Bluefields and when she ended up in that nursing home.”

Silence filled the space between the two men.

“Derek, you don’t need to do any more. You found her. Hotch’ll be grateful for that. You can go on back to Quantico. Good job.”

Morgan’s hesitation spoke volumes. Rossi grasped its implication.

“Unless….you don’t _want_ to go home?”

“Rossi, all I’d be doing is sitting behind a desk until you and Hotch get back. Strauss has made us the touchstone for every consult in the country.” Morgan cast about for a motive more altruistic than personal boredom. “Besides, I might be able to find something that’ll make Felicia’s confinement to a place like that easier for Hotch to take. There’s a grandson I can talk to…and I think it would be good to be able to tell Hotch I saw Felicia in person. He’s gonna wonder what the place is like where she ended up. You _know_ he is.”

Rossi rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing at increasing weariness. The list of potentially stressful things he needed to discuss with Aaron was growing. “Okay. Go ahead. Be careful, and call me when you’re done…or if you need anything.”

“Thanks, man.” The younger agent’s voice was a cross between relief and concern. “Take care of Hotch. And remember: you can call _any_ of the guys _any_ time, if _you_ need help.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Distracted, Rossi slipped his phone back in his pocket, looking up when a tumbler filled with Scotch and the cheerful tinkle of ice cubes intruded on his field of vision.

“Thanks, Marty.”

“You look like you could use it.” The doctor sipped his own drink. “Anything I can help with?”

Rossi sighed. “Not really. Just a couple of things I should talk to Aaron about. It’s the timing I’m worried about most. He’s had one helluva day.” A loud thump sounded from upstairs. “Right now I think, if I leave him alone, it could end on a high note. But…”

“B-u-t…if you talk to him, you could bring him down. And by the look of you… _way_ down.”

“Maybe.”

“So don’t talk to him.”

Rossi almost stumbled at the suggestion as he crossed to the freezer for more ice.

“Dave, you’re tired, too. There’s no rule about immediate disclosure. Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow. Let him be a kid and play with his son tonight.”

Marty took another appreciative sip of very fine liquor, noting the speculative expression on his friend’s face. “Let’s all take a break and enjoy the fact that Aaron seems to be doing better. In fact…” He glanced around at the luxurious furnishings that spoke of both Rossi’s good fortune _and_ good taste. “…if his fever stays down and he eats at least twice tomorrow, I’m thinking it’s time for me and Fudge to head back to our humble, but comfortable digs…You know: on the _other_ side of the tracks.”

Rossi’s head snapped up as he dropped a fresh ice cube in his drink; his look of concern deepening. “No, Marty. You can’t leave yet.”

Puzzled, the doctor frowned. “Why not?”

With wordless deliberation, Rossi threw the freezer door wide. A few steps brought him to the refrigerator where he performed the same maneuver. Although diminished, the Technicolor wall of Garcia’s Tupperware loomed in silent, still-overwhelming splendor.

“You can’t leave, Marty. You can’t leave me alone with…all…this…you can’t…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

A short time later, ensconced in what had become their customary positions in Rossi’s den, the two men stared into the fireplace, mesmerized.

Rossi was particularly relaxed. He didn’t know if it was the hypnotic effect of the fire, or weariness in the wake of an emotional day, or the relief he felt at realizing he could postpone any weighty discussions with Hotch, or the Scotch. But Marty’s broaching the subject of his eventual departure made him want to take advantage of the doctor’s experience. Rossi wanted his friend’s perspective on the latest revelations concerning Aaron.

_We’re both here to help him. I hope I’m not divulging something he wants kept from Marty, but I need advice. It would really help to have a sounding board._

So, in a low voice, with frequent pauses as he groped for the right words in his tired mind, Rossi painted a picture of Aaron taken from the words of Ada Billingsley and Dr. Swinburn. The only thing he left out was what he thought of as Aaron’s Secret: his long ago confession to Swinburn that in spite of everything, he’d still managed to find love in his heart for the monster who’d tortured him.

“I haven’t had time to assimilate it all, Marty. But in your professional opinion, what do you make of it? Of Aaron being sent away. Of his surviving all that abuse up until he was about eighteen. What’s your take on it all?” He shot a sidelong glance at the doctor sunk in peaceful contemplation of the fire. “ _If_ you’re still awake…”

“Don’t be impertinent, Dave. I’ve heard every word.” He raised his glass to his lips, tasting the smooth, smoky liquid. “I’m just letting my razor-sharp mind comb through the multitude of possibilities…sifting for the most viable combination of factors to explain our young friend upstairs.”

“Ah…I see...” Rossi smiled, settling deeper into his chair. “I just thought you looked, you know… _asleep_. Thought I  might’ve heard a, you know… _snore…_ ”

Marty expelled a long-suffering sigh. “Impertinent. Impudent. Unappreciative of the wisdom of your elders…Ah, well…the cross those of superior experience must bear.”

A few minutes passed with nothing to hear but the crackle of burning wood, and an occasional grunt from the dogs splayed out on the hearth.

At last, Marty pulled himself a little straighter in his seat. “Dave, if you got the timeline right…if Aaron managed to pull himself together after his father moved out of the house they shared, and managed to get through…what?...three years of high school?”

Rossi nodded. “I think that’s right.”

“Well, then he didn’t really fall apart until right after his father died. That’s when he got lost somewhere inside himself. That’s when all that name-calling… ‘ghost’… ‘wraith’…whatever…started. That’s when the townspeople felt confronted by what they’d let happen to the boy.”

Rossi waited, hoping for a tidy diagnosis. Or at least an insightful guess.

The doctor fell silent again, but his furrowed brow indicated deep concentration. At last he sighed.

“Dave, I think losing his father set up a conflict in Aaron that finally took him down. He lost him when the man moved out, but there was still the possibility of communication. Maybe in Aaron’s mind, a hope of reconciliation, or at least explanation.” Marty shook his head. “But when Death steps in, all that is taken away.

“So I have to wonder if it didn’t boil down to one of two possibilities.” He turned, locking earnest eyes with Rossi. “Most abused children, as adults, want to know the ‘why’ of it all. Maybe, on the edge of adulthood, Aaron thought as long as his father was around, he had a chance to get some answers from the source; to find out why it all happened the way it did. When that was taken from him, when his father died, it left him with questions that would plague him for the rest of his life.

“That’s one possibility. The other…well…this might sound crazy, Dave, but…” Marty hesitated, giving himself one more moment to consider whether or not he wanted to put forth Theory Number Two.

“Maybe…maybe, despite what that bastard did to him, Aaron loved his father. He might not have realized it until the man was gone. That kind of self-discovery…love for a man who’d made his life hell…I could see that knocking him so far off track, he’d need help to find his way back.”

The doctor leaned back in his chair again, shaking his head and murmuring to himself.

“Imagine, that much love and hate…so inexplicable…so powerful…yeah…that could do a man’s soul some damage…”

Rossi stared.

Marty had just guessed Hotch’s Secret. And Rossi was beginning to see the possibility that, for Hotch, love had been as destructive a force as hate.

And he wondered if the scars left by love were just as painful. And if they ever healed.

 


	93. Emotional Landscaping

When Marty could no longer blame the occasional snoring Dave heard on the dogs, the two old friends decided to call it a night.

The doctor took Fudge and a pinkly-wagging Mudgie out for a last tour of their favorite shrubbery. Rossi tidied things away and then trudged up the stairs to, as he thought of it, ‘check on the children.’

Pushing the door of Hotch’s room open, he saw father and son tumbled together in an indiscriminate heap of bedding. The nightstand lamp had been left on, but a towel was draped over the small, brocade shade. _Probably a nightlight for Jack._

He paused, looking down on them, wondering what other childhood fears this little boy harbored. Fear of the dark was reassuringly common, but they’d already uncovered the guilt the child carried, blaming himself for everything from his mother’s death to his father’s measles. _I guess there’s no way to avoid taking on some baggage when you’re Aaron Hotchner’s son. We’ll just have to keep an eye on him and catch things before they become too deeply ingrained._ He shifted his attention to Hotch. _It’s too bad there wasn’t someone there a long time ago to do the same for Aaron._

Sighing with resignation, but also with renewed realization that, in this case at least, pain had forged an admirable man, Rossi smoothed the wrinkled blanket partially covering both bodies.

Taking a last glance, he became aware that a dark eye had opened. He was under observation. Rossi placed his index finger against his lips in the age-old signal for silence.

“Shhhhhh…. Go back to sleep.”

But in true Hotchner fashion, curiosity and rebelliousness came to the fore. The other eye opened.

Then the head rose, craning around to see if Daddy was alright.

Rossi tried again. “Shhhhhh…. Jack, don’t wake your father. He’s tired. Go to sleep.”

The boy settled back into the crook of Daddy’s arm, half-complying with Poppi’s request. His whisper matched the older man’s. “Daddy’s okay.”

Rossi smiled. “Yes, he is.”

“I spotted him.”

Poppi’s quizzical look demanded explanation. Jack touched his own shoulder in illustration. “Here. I spotted him.”

 _Oh, no. Not again._ With the gentlest of touches, Rossi lifted the neckline of Hotch’s t-shirt. He couldn’t pull it far enough away to see the full extent of Jack’s artwork, but…it was enough. “Ohhhh…Jack….” The defeated tone told Hotch’s son that Poppi didn’t get it.

“‘S okay. He spotted me, too.” The small hand hastened to pull the neck of his own shirt back, displaying a perfectly precise leopard spot. Red. Indelible. Jack’s whisper had some urgency to it; he didn’t want Poppi getting the wrong idea. “Daddy said we could…And when I’m bigger…he said we could get _real_ tattoos. Together. So they won’t wear off.”

Rossi’s eyes widened. _Oh, Aaron. You’ve done it now. You think he’s going to forget?_ He sighed. _Maybe it’s time someone told you it’s possible your boy’s memory might rival Reid’s._ Aloud, he sounded nothing but congratulatory.

“Well…that’s something to look forward to.” He pulled the child’s shirt back in place. “But to get bigger, you need a good night’s sleep.” Kissing the forehead that he noted was cool, fever-free, Rossi tucked the blankets more securely around the two. “Good night, Jack. See you tomorrow.”

“Night, Poppi.”

Snuggling closer to Daddy’s side, Jack closed his eyes, eager to do whatever would hasten that magical day when he’d be big enough to be permanently leopardized. And Daddy, too.

 

xxxxxxx

 

When Hotch woke up, it took him a few minutes to orient himself. Not physically; he knew where he was. However, emotional grounding was another matter.

He sorted through the layers. It was like dropping down through fluttering sheets of panic and anxiety to finally hit solid footing and the realization that yesterday’s rollercoaster ride had ended well. He breathed out a long, slow sigh of relief, recalling the moment when Swinburn had told him he’d never been committed to any kind of mental institution. And almost as important, that he’d had people looking out for him. The realization that there had been sporadic kindness and an occasional angel for young Aaron, filled him with a strange mixture of surprise and gratitude.

It was a good resolution to his worries, but in the process he’d had to acknowledge memories he’d repressed with a vengeance. Triggered by people from his past, they’d reasserted themselves with mercilessly vivid sensations and images. Hotch felt like a rag that had been soaked to saturation point, then twisted, wrung, and tossed in a damp heap.

  _But I’m okay._ He swallowed. _I just wish I could forget a lot of that stuff again. Or bury it really, really deep……Maybe, in time……_

He turned his head to the side, missing Jack’s warmth. The boy usually plastered himself against his father from chest to hip, instinctively seeking out body heat. But no one shared Hotch’s bed this morning, although the toy wolf that Prentiss had brought him was propped against a pillow, subjecting him to its beady stare. He smiled.

 _I have to thank her for all that stuff. Especially the book on coins._ He let his head drop back. _I have to thank a lot of people. Morgan and Garcia and…well…the whole team. And Rossi for putting up with me. And Marty. And Miss Billingsley. And Dr. Swinburn. And old Mr. Bledsoe for trying to help Felicia…_ He closed his eyes. _Felicia…I wonder if Morgan found out where she went after my Dad…my Dad…_

And that’s where Hotch stopped his mind from wandering. He had to close the door on some things he just wasn’t ready to confront. As a child, he’d become adept at the art of not-thinking-about. When he’d entered training with the FBI and learned that it was a job skill called compartmentalization, he’d known his decision to leave the practice of law and enter the field of its enforcement was a good one. Hotch already had a lifetime of practice in such mental gymnastics. Now, he refocused his attention by getting up, concentrating on washing and dressing.

He had a feeling Jack had been lured downstairs by the faint, but detectable aroma of bacon. Hotch looked forward to joining him and proving he could keep his breakfast down today.

_As long as there aren’t any more sudden revelations waiting to sucker punch me in the gut._

Hotch was still a little shaky, but not as much as yesterday. He had to admit that part of his newfound strength was traceable to attitude. He felt that shouldn’t be the case; that he should be stronger than that; able to function despite inner turmoil. But knowing even one person had valued him enough to risk helping him when he was a boy made him feel somehow more worthwhile.

He couldn’t help profiling himself.

_That’s what happens to kids who don’t get enough validation. They frequently become adults who look to outsiders for it. They’re sometimes a little too eager to please others._

Hotch shook his head, a wry smile tracing his lips. No one could say Aaron Hotchner was someone who played up to others for a quick fix of approval. His personal integrity prevented him from being a ‘yes’ man. But it was also true that his single-minded dedication to his job, marked by self-sacrifice and adherence to standards above and beyond expectations, was his way of overcompensating.

To do anything less than excel wasn’t good enough in Hotch’s world. He was aware that he allowed his colleagues to adhere to a less rigid criterion. It was his way of seeking confirmation that he was ‘good enough.’ The difference was that Hotch’s ongoing struggle for acceptance was internal. He was always proving to himself that he deserved to be where he was. He was his own harshest critic.

He finished shaving, splashing water on his face to rinse off vestiges of creamy lather…and felt a tentative touch on his back.

“Aaron, how’re you feeling?”

Hotch straightened, grabbing a towel and blotting his jaw. “Better than yesterday…thanks, Dave. Is Jack downstairs?”

Rossi nodded. “He’s eating. Telling Marty all about school. I think he’s finally looking forward to going back. Especially since you’ll be here a little longer, so he knows you’ll be waiting when he comes home.”

Something in the tone and in the hand on his back that not only maintained contact, but began to rub a gentle pattern of comfort, alerted Hotch.

“Dave?...Something wrong?”

“No. Not really. It’s just…” Rossi was debating the wisdom of discussing Felicia, and the fact that he’d heard Hotch confess about loving his father…clearly an emotional conflict for the man. _It’s a matter of timing. Do it before he eats and risk destroying that fragile appetite…or do it after breakfast and risk him losing the whole meal the way he did when he first thought he’d been institutionalized._

“Just…what?”

“Aaron, there are a couple of things we should talk about. Not serious. But could be emotional for you. I’m just wondering if you’re up to it yet.”

Hotch’s shoulders slumped. “Give me a hint?”

“About Felicia…and your father.”

The younger man’s eyes lowered, testing his own internal landscape. When he looked up, there was a slight shadowing of doubt in the dark depths.

“Now, Dave. Let’s do it now.”

 


	94. A Matter of Timing

Rossi noted that Hotch _did_ look better.

There was a little more color in his face. _And I think it’s healthy color, not the hectic flush from fever._ But as he escorted the man out of the bathroom, he could still feel an occasional shiver, and his progress was a little halting…not quite steady. _He’s going to need to rest frequently until his strength returns. So, as long as we need to sit down for a bit before navigating the stairs…we might as well talk._

He deposited Hotch on the edge of the bed, taking his own seat in a chair pulled close. Hotch’s posture was straight, but his eyes were downcast. He looked like someone waiting for sentence to be pronounced. Rossi faced him, resting his fingers with a light touch on each of Hotch’s knees. He took a deep breath.

“Which do you want to tackle first, Aaron? Felicia or your father.”

The answering voice was low, an undertone of bitterness running through it. “Felicia. There’s nothing about my father that could possibly make any difference now. He’s dead.” He swallowed. “Is…is Felicia? Dead?”

“Ohhh, no. No, Aaron. She’s not.”

The eyes finally looked up, connecting with Rossi’s. “She’s…? Where is she? _How_ is she? Morgan found her?”

“Garcia found her. Morgan’s headed to Richmond this morning to check up on her.” He saw the puzzled, desperate-for-more look Hotch was giving him. “She’s 97, Aaron. She’s in a nursing home for people with Alzheimer’s. According to them, she hasn’t spoken in quite some time. I’m sorry.”

Hotch nodded, looking down again. His brow furrowed. “I should’ve looked for her a long time ago. I left it too late.”

It was Rossi’s turn to frown. “You didn’t remember her until a few days ago. How could you go searching for someone you didn’t know about?” He batted one of the knees his fingers had been resting on. “Jeez, Aaron. Give yourself a break. You know I’m right.”

“Yeah. Still…”

“ ‘Still’ nothing. This couldn’t have played out any other way. It’s not like you had a choice in recalling your childhood. Hell, if it were me, I wouldn’t wanna remember that stuff either!”

Hotch chewed on his bottom lip, nodding again. “Yeah. I kinda wish I hadn’t remembered so much…you know?” He glanced up, seeking some sort of undefined confirmation, and immediately thought of his self-profile while he’d been shaving. _I’m looking for validation about how I feel toward my father from the only man who’s ever treated me like a son, instead of a punching bag. Maybe there is something of the ‘yes-man’ about me. Sometimes. With some people. Well…with Dave._

He took a deep breath and looked up, eyes damp. “If Felicia needs anything…if there’s _anything_ I can do…”

Rossi patted his knee. “I know. Morgan said he’s also going to drop in on her grandson. Seems he’s the one looking after her. He’ll let us know what the situation is…but…I’m sorry, Aaron. I know it might’ve done you some good to talk to her…but…well…”

Hotch shrugged. “Yeah. Timing’s everything, right? And mine’s never been all that good.” Rossi didn’t like the brittle anger he detected lurking just below the surface. But it vanished almost immediately. “I still wanna go  see her. I better not leave _that_ too late.”

Heaving a deep sigh, Hotch raised his chin, bracing himself for whatever was next. But Rossi wasn’t ready to move on without some clarification.

“What’d’you mean your timing’s never been good? Where’s that coming from?”

Hotch shook his head, eyes closing for a moment. “Nothing. Sorry. It’s not important.”

Rossi studied him, gears clicking, theories forming. _He wants to tell someone. He wants me to find out._ Any other time he might have resorted to shock therapy and demanded if the timing issue had anything to do with his father’s death. But he wasn’t sure of Hotch’s ability to withstand much. The last thing Rossi wanted was to incur some sort of backsliding either emotionally or physically. Still, he had a suspicion…

“Alright. We’ll set that aside. For later.” _Maybe. Unless I’m right and this next piece of business brings it all out._ He straightened, moving his hands up to bracket Hotch’s shoulders, thumbs tracing the prominent lines of his collarbones. “I know yesterday was hard on you. I thought about waiting to talk to you about this, but you’ve developed a capacity to hide and an elusiveness that, frankly, amazes me. So, I want to talk to you while I’ve got you captive.”

“About my father.”

“About your _feelings_ for your father.” Rossi thought he felt a slight stiffening in the shoulders under his palms. He responded by squeezing a brief message of comfort.

“Aaron…I walked in on you while you were talking to Dr. Swinburn. I don’t even know if you were aware of me...it seemed to be a very emotional moment for you.” Rossi felt a shiver pass through Hotch. He wasn’t sure if it was fever- or anxiety-based. He licked his lips. “I heard you say you loved your father. Aaron…”

Hotch made an abortive attempt to pull away, but Rossi was prepared, expecting an evasive maneuver. He tightened his grip, holding the younger man in place.

“I’m not gonna push you to talk about it, but I want you to know I _do_ understand. It’s a natural impulse, almost programmed into us, to love our parents.” Hotch tried to move away again, and, again, was stymied. Acknowledging his physical weakness, he settled for holding himself very straight and still. Or so he thought.

But Rossi could feel involuntary shudders passing through his friend. It was the result of iron-willed control clashing with a river of emotion that had flowed so deep, so silent for too many years. All he could do was hold on, hoping to transmit warmth, solace and acceptance through his grip. It took a few minutes before Hotch found his voice…low, measured, and with that undercurrent of bitter anger Rossi found disturbing.

“I _know_ it’s normal for kids to love their parents. But there was nothing normal about my Dad.” He let out a shaky breath. “How messed up did I have to be to love that bastard? Damn it, Dave…I went to law school long after he was dead, because I _still_ wanted to please him. How sick is that? Huh?”

Rossi held tight. “Not at all. But that’s where your timing issue came in, didn’t it, Aaron? Your Dad died before you had a chance, if not to reconcile, then at least to get some answers.” _My God, Morgan’s right. Back when we were working the Darrin Call case, Aaron put his life on the line because he wanted Call to get the answers he himself never had the chance to ask for. Bet he didn’t even know his own motivation, it’s so deep inside him…so much a part of him._

“Aaron, it’s not sick. Not then. Not now. And whatever your reason for becoming an attorney, you didn’t stick with it. You used it as a stepping stone to get to a job, a _career_ , that suits you and at which you excel. You learned skills as a lawyer that help you every day in the Bureau. With politics…with debating…with weighing pros and cons of any given situation.

“Aaron, you have a natural talent for law. You might have chosen to pursue it no matter what your father was. You weren’t necessarily following in his footsteps.”

Rossi wasn’t sure if he was getting through or not. He ducked his head down, trying for a better look at Hotch’s eyes.

“As for loving your father, as well as hating him…” Rossi took a deep breath, exhaling it in a long, slow sigh. “I bet if we break the man down, building block by building block, we’d find that you hated his cruelty and violence…but loved his strength and intelligence. I bet we could discover all kinds of _qualities_ worthy of admiration, even if the man, as a _total_ , wasn’t.

“And don’t ever think that your ability to love is sick, Aaron. Even when it’s misplaced, even when it hurts, you thank your lucky stars for having the capacity to do so. It’s what sets you apart from your father. It’s why you’ll _never_ be like your father. It’s a gift. And you use it well.”

Head hanging, Hotch was quiet. Rossi waited, watchful. When Hotch finally raised his head, he sought the older man’s eyes.

“I thought once I’d stood up to him and won…when I kicked him out of the house…I thought he might consider me an equal. I thought we might finally be able to talk.” Hotch trembled, struggling to put into words things he’d kept in the darkest corners of his soul for most of his life.

“I never got to talk to him, Dave. Two days before I was all set to do it…he died.” Hotch lowered his head again, looking lost. “I never got to talk to my Dad…”

Rossi moved to sit on the bed beside Hotch. He pulled him close, and thought about the power of touch versus the power of words. At the best of times, they worked in tandem, augmenting each other’s purpose and intent. In private, Rossi thought the elder Hotchner’s words would likely have been as hurtful and abusive as the touch to which he’d subjected his young son.

But for Aaron’s sake, he spoke words he hoped would offer, if not solace, then at least a springboard to a deeper understanding.

“You _weren’t_ your father’s equal, Aaron…you surpassed him. A long time ago, you surpassed him…and have ever since…every day of your life…. It takes a largeness of soul to find love for someone who’s wronged you so horribly. Love can co-exist with hate. But it’s not sick or twisted or…broken…It’s just the inner workings of a man with a loving heart and a very human soul…a very special man…”

Rossi would have been glad to know that not only was Hotch listening, taking in every word…but he was thinking to himself…

_…This is what fathers are supposed to say to their sons. This is the talk I wish I could have had…This is the Dad I wish I could have had…_


	95. Ribbons and Other Dainty Things

Morgan stepped down from his SUV, stretching the kinks out of his spine.

He surveyed the construction site before him. Dusty, noisy, bustling, and bearing a sign that credited Freemont Construction with the project of erecting a futuristic-looking office complex on the fringes of downtown Richmond. Dressed in t-shirt, jeans and utilitarian boots, he attracted little attention as he made his way to the trailer that he assumed was the main office.

He peered through the doorway into the compact interior.

When the man inside, bent over a sheaf of blueprints spread over a Formica-topped desk didn’t look up, Morgan tapped a staccato announcement of his presence on the metal doorframe. It earned him a quick glance of appraisal before the plans reclaimed the man’s attention.

“We ain’t hirin’.”

Morgan smiled. “I’m not looking.”

“Well, that’s good, ‘cause we ain’t hirin’.”

“I’m looking for Lawrence Freemont.”

The man raised his head, giving Morgan a more thorough inspection. “You lookin’ for Larry?” Morgan nodded. “What fer?”

The question, leaking suspicion around its edges, took him by surprise. The agent drew himself up, careful to keep his expression blank. “I want to ask him a few questions…Private business.”

The eyes regarding Morgan narrowed. “You from the City Planning Commission?”

Derek blinked. “What?...No.”

“‘Cause we ain’t gonna change the subcontractors we already signed. Don’t care who Mayor Rathburn promised. Shoulda checked with us first.” He bent back to his pile of blueprints, sucking at his teeth and muttering about favoritism and how it was just a short fall from there to political corruption and _then_ where would this fine city be?

Morgan took a step further into the cramped space. He kept his voice calm and non-confrontational. “I don’t work for the City, and what I want to ask Mr. Freemont is strictly personal…nothing to do with your business. So, if you could just point me in his direction?...”

Pulled up short, he gave Morgan another lengthy once-over. At last, he nodded. “Well, okay. Long’s you’re not from the Commission…”

“I’m not.”

“Larry took the day off. Far as I know he’s at home.”

Morgan glanced out the door at the nonstop activity. “You sure? He’s not at another site, maybe?”

“Nope. One of his kid’s took sick at school. Went to pick her up.” Now that the visitor had denied any connection to whatever difficulties the City Planning Commission posed, it seemed Larry’s employee had no problem sharing his boss’ private business.

“Larry’s been widowed these past six years.” He shook his head in commiseration. “Hard for a guy to be Mom and Dad to two kids…and _girls_ , too.” He scratched at his jaw. “You just _know_ that’s gotta be harder than hell.” He bent, leaning close to the desktop, tracing a faint blue line with the tip of an index finger. “Yep…yep…raisin’ _girls_ is tough…”

Morgan thanked the man he assumed was the site foreman, leaving him immersed in his drawings, muttering about Barbie dolls and ballet classes and hair ribbons.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Things had gone better than Rossi expected.

_Or maybe the poor guy’s so wrung out he’s gone into overdrive…can’t react with more than a whimper._

But whatever the reason, Hotch had let himself be comforted, which had Rossi wondering if it had been more for _his_ benefit than Aaron’s need. Although Hotch had placed a hand over his stomach when he finally stood, he hadn’t thrown up. And after a few minutes alone in the bathroom where it sounded as though all he’d done was splash water on his face, he said he was ready to go downstairs and face…food…

At the top of the landing, Hotch stopped, giving Rossi a sidelong look when the older man slid an arm around his waist.

“Thanks, but I think I can make it on my own, Dave.”

Rossi stepped back, giving his friend an appraising look. “Alright. But do me a favor and hold onto the banister, okay?”

Hotch nodded, taking careful steps and gripping the rail with one white-knuckled hand. Rossi stayed by his side, matching the slow pace. Two-thirds of the way down, Hotch hesitated, a shiver running through him, throwing his step off. This time when Rossi took hold of his waist, he didn’t object.

Dave gave him an affectionate squeeze when they attained the ground floor. “Atta boy…at least you’re learning to just shut up and take it when help’s offered…and needed.”

Hotch stopped for a minute, catching his breath before continuing on.

He could hear the singsong sound of youthful chatter coming from the kitchen. Jack was entertaining Marty; regaling him with Tribal Lore…Tales of the Raspberry Leopards. Upon hearing some of the Spotted Chief’s exploits, Hotch pulled himself taller. He wanted to enter looking like the Chief Jack said he was…not the still somewhat pale, decimated creature he felt he actually resembled.

There was a great deal of giggling. The doctor’s voice was too low for words to be audible, but his tone and occasional laugh gave the impression of general merriment.

When Hotch had assumed what he hoped was a look of vigor, he and Rossi crossed the foyer, entered the kitchen…and froze.

It was Hotch’s first view of post-food-coloring and post-tail-trimmed Mudgie. It was Rossi’s first view of his dog after what had apparently been a morning session of primping and prepping by Marty and Jack… _But mostly Marty_. _I’d stake my **life** on it,_ he fumed. _He’s been exploring…and he found where I keep the gift wrapping._

With pride and patience, Mudgie stood in the center of the tiled floor, tail sweeping the air in a stately arc, like the mannered wave of a beauty queen atop a parade float. Ears, neck and, most of all…tail…were festooned with ribbons.

Curly ribbons.

Curly ribbons that bounced with even the slightest movement.

Curly ribbons arranged in corkscrew spirals resembling a princess’ flowing ringlets.

Curly ribbons in pink, red and white.

Hotch saw Rossi’s thunderous expression and did his best not to laugh outright. But one look at the Unit Chief…or Leopard Chief…it wasn’t clear which title best suited the setting…compressing his lips into a thin, controlled line that kept fighting to quirk upwards at the outer corners, and the effort it was costing him was obvious.

Rossi could only stare.

His dog had been transformed into a deranged Valentine.

Marty met his eyes with open innocence. “What?”

In the face of Rossi’s continued silence, he felt compelled to explain. “I was just telling young Mr. Hotchner here how you hadn’t been walking poor Mudge the way you usually do because you were reluctant to put his pink tail on display. So… we decided to fix it.”

Rossi found his voice. “ _Fix_ it? You _fixed_ it?”

Jack piped up in tones of triumph from where he sat amidst shreds and spools of ribbon. “Yeah! Dr. Palmer says _no one_ will notice his tail now!”

It wasn’t until Rossi heard braying laughter, unsuccessfully muffled, that he realized Hotch had fled the room, taking his mirth at Dave’s expense to a more discreet distance, deep within the mansion.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan already had Lawrence Freemont’s home address programmed into his GPS, thanks to the ever-efficient Garcia. He found the quiet street of stately homes without trouble.

He could have told which one was Freemont’s even without the house number. It spoke to Morgan’s sensibilities as an architectural restorer. He understood a man who worked in construction wanting to take a hands-on approach to his own home.

Pale yellow, accented with neat, white trim, it was the most gracefully preserved building on the block. Somehow, Morgan thought he’d like this man, Felicia’s grandson; maybe find some common ground in their mutual appreciation of the convergence of art and history, expressed in brick and wood and fieldstone.

He pulled into the wide, circular driveway, eyes still cataloging every architectural detail.

Walking up to the front door, he thought he heard the exaggerated sound effects and hyper music that could only come from a cartoon. It gave credence to the site foreman’s statement that Freemont had had to take time off to tend a sick child. Morgan could imagine a little girl ensconced before the television with a worried, single father hovering with blankets, soup and children’s aspirin.

For a moment he flashed on little Jack Hotchner, sick with the measles with his own worried, single, but also ill, Dad in attendance.

Morgan rang the doorbell feeling comfortable with the profiling he’d gleaned from this man’s house and the sounds emanating from it. The tread of heavy steps could be heard approaching the door.

When it opened, Morgan stepped back. He had to crane his neck upward to look into the face of one of the biggest men he’d ever seen. It might have been intimidating, except this monumental specimen was wearing a dainty, floral apron meant for someone much smaller, and carrying what Morgan recognized as My Little Pony.


	96. Family Legend

“Help you?” The human megalith standing before him gave Morgan a distracted glance, wiping one hand on the scrap of flowered fabric tied around his waist, clutching the sparkly My Little Pony doll in the other.

Before Morgan could answer, the disconsolate wail of a child wanting sympathy and attention came from one of the inner rooms. “D-a-a-d-d-y!”

 Twisting, the man Morgan assumed to be Larry Freemont called over his shoulder. “Be right there, sweetheart. Daddy’s gotta answer the door first.” He turned back to the stranger standing on his welcome mat. “Make it quick, buddy. Gotta little one who wants…” He looked at the lavender, winged creature engulfed in his large hand, frowning. “…don’t remember this one’s name…”

Morgan smiled. “Just call it ‘Princess’ and you’ll probably be on safe ground.”

A low, warm chuckle told the agent he’d struck a harmonious chord with this frazzled, single dad.

“Bet you’re right.” Giving the toy a last fond, but bemused, look, he turned his attention back to Morgan. “Now, who are you, and what can I do for you?”

“Name’s Derek Morgan, Mr…Freemont?” That earned Morgan a sharp look.

“You know me?”

“No, I don’t. I’m here about your grandmother, Felicia Davenport.”

The large face immediately sagged; good humor replaced by worn lines of concern. “Is she…? She didn’t…?...” He braced himself. “What happened?”

Morgan was mentally kicking himself. He should have worded his interest differently. _You don’t blurt out you’ve come to someone’s door about a relative who’s 97 and in a nursing home…Of **course** he thinks something happened to her!_

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m sorry. Please, let me explain.”

“D-a-a-d-d-y!” Freemont made an involuntary move toward the insistent child’s voice, every instinct prompting him to go to her. When he looked back at Morgan, the agent saw a play of expressions that exposed the man’s thoughts before he’d given them words.

“Look, I gotta go take care of my kid. You a social worker or something? Got some ID? I don’t let strangers in when my kids are home.”

Feeling bad about giving this man a moment of false alarm concerning his grandmother, Morgan was reflex-quick to whip out his ID, not thinking that, for most people, seeing an FBI badge displayed on their front steps might not be the most welcome or calming experience. He was right.

“Oh, Hell…does this have anything to do with that damn Planning Commission? ‘Cause I’m tellin’ you now: I did _not_ cooperate with them.”

“No…no…Mr. Freemont…please. I’m not here in any official capacity. I’m just interested in how your grandmother’s doing.” Morgan watched the wariness drain from the man’s eyes. Curiosity took its place.

“D-a-a-a-a-d-d-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!”

Unable to resist the child’s call any longer, Freemont ushered Morgan into the front hallway, closing and locking the door behind him. “Come on. Just let me get my girl settled and then…” He came to an abrupt halt in his lumbering progress down the corridor, brandishing the purple pony toward his guest, eyes glinting with triumph. “Tiddly Wink! That’s it! That’s the thing’s name.”

Morgan lagged behind, hovering in the doorway of a living room that was in the process of being converted into a little girl’s sickroom sanctuary. He grinned at the spectacle of this towering man leaning over a tiny, feminine creature decked out in a feathery, pink, princess costume complete with plastic tiara, holding court from a blanket-covered sofa, surrounded by toys she had obviously sent Daddy to fetch as vital to her recovery. Milk and cookies seemed to be the other heavy performers in the arsenal to combat whatever ailed the child.

“Here she is, Pumpkin… _Tiddly Wink_!”

Tiny hands reached up, grabbing the purple toy. “Thank you, Daddy!” Sensing another presence, a small head coifed in cornrows, tiara tilted, raised high enough to subject Morgan to the solemn regard of two large, doe-dark eyes.

Freemont noticed his daughter’s interest. “It’s nothing, Angel. Just a man who needs to talk to Daddy.”

He maneuvered his bulk around, careful to avoid upsetting any of the delicate figurines and dolls keeping the little girl company. “You got everything you need for now?” His answer was a vigorous nod. “Okay. I’ll be in my office. You need anything, you yell out…got it?” He received an encore to the previous nod.

With a weary sigh, Freemont motioned Morgan to follow him. The hall flooring composed of what Derek was sure was the house’s original pine planking gleamed underfoot, claiming his attention as they walked. He almost ran into his host when the man came to a stop before an elegantly carved door.

With a jerk of his head, Freemont ushered Morgan in. “This’s my office. We can talk here.”

Once inside, he seemed to emerge from his role as harried father, assuming the more professional mantle of business owner. Belatedly, he noticed the apron straining to reach around his midriff. With a rueful look, he pulled it off, balling it up and tossing it onto a corner of his desk.

“Little one took sick. Had to bring her home.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Can’t get babysitters on that kind of short notice, so…” He thrust his chin toward the crumpled apron, as if it symbolized the missing mother and all the duties that might have fallen to her, had she been present…but were now his.

For a moment his eyes were distant, recalling a past where ponies and princesses hadn’t been part of his regular duties. When he returned, Freemont was all crisp efficiency.

“So, Mr….Morgan, was it?” Derek nodded. “What’s the FBI’s interest in my grandmother?”

“None. I’m not here officially. When you asked for ID, well…” Morgan gave an apologetic shrug. “…it’s kind of habit, you know?”

“Okay. Okay. Glad to hear my Nana’s not on the ten-most-wanted list.” Freemont perched on the edge of the desk, motioning for Morgan to take one of two leather armchairs facing him. “So how d’you know her?”

Morgan settled into his seat, noting the ornate crown molding that also looked original to the house. “I’ve never met your grandmother, but she was important to a friend of mine. He had kind of a hard time growing up and she, well, helped him…was kind to him. He’d like to know how she’s doing.”

Freemont frowned. “Why now? She hasn’t been looking after kids for quite some time. Why now?” A shadow of dawning suspicion crossed the large features. “Where was this?”

Morgan shifted, unsure of the reception his information would receive. “As to the ‘why’…he didn’t remember her until a few days ago. Like I said, he had a hard time and hasn’t thought about that part of his life in a long while.” He took a breath. “As to the ‘where’…Bluefields. A long time ago in Bluefields.”

The reaction wasn’t what he’d expected.

Freemont’s brow creased. He turned his head, giving his visitor a sidelong look rife with disbelief. “This friend of yours…he wouldn’t be a white boy, would he? Hair as black as night. Eyes that could look a little…well…strange?”

“Uh…I guess you could describe him that way. Not a boy anymore, but…yeah, he’s white, dark-haired…can give you a look that’ll let you know when you’ve crossed a line.” Morgan leaned forward, feeling on the verge of something intriguing. “You know him? Or… _knew_ him?”

Freemont crossed his arms, looking inward at some piece of his own past. His voice was soft, speculative. “Well, I’ll be…. He was real…. I thought it was just…” He shook his head. “Huh…He was real...Damn…”

Bringing himself out of his reverie, he looked at Morgan. “My Nana…Felicia…she used to tell us about a kid. Used him as an example of how good we had it, if we got whiny about anything. Set him before us if we got picky about eating, or were just…you know…bratty. Kind of like some parents tell their kids to eat their broccoli, ‘cause there are starving children who’d be glad to have it.”

Freemont stood up, crossing to one of the room’s tall, narrow windows. “When I got to that point with my own…” He shot Morgan a sheepish look. “… _now_ , as a matter of fact…I use him as sort of a family legend. He’s always watchin’. Lookin’ through the windows with those hungry eyes.” He bit his bottom lip, shaking his head. “Called him Wolfie-Wild. Had no idea he was real…. No idea…”

He turned back toward Morgan. “If half of what my grandmother said was true…God…I hope I’m wrong, but…” He faltered as the deep sadness he detected in the FBI agent’s eyes confirmed the worst.

“You’re not wrong, Mr. Freemont. There really was a boy like that. And your grandmother helped him survive. And he’s my friend. That’s why I’d like to see her.”

Morgan thought the man’s eyes looked a little moist when he moved back toward his desk, taking a seat behind it.

“Alright. But there are some things you should know before you do.”

“I know she has Alzheimer’s, if that makes it any easier.”

“Easier?” Freemont rubbed his hands over his face. “There’s no such thing as ‘easy’ when Alzheimer’s enters your home.”

 


	97. Human Limits

Disgusted, Rossi went in search of Hotch. En route, he tried to decide exactly _what_ offended him most.

The effrontery of seeing Marty and his surrogate grandson decorating his dog in such demented fashion…or…

The hilarity of his best friend as Aaron took flight, weaving and staggering his way to some inner sanctum where his bleating laughter at Rossi’s expense could be given free rein…or…

The look of adoration in Mudgie’s eyes as he approached his master, resplendent in trappings that would have done a florist’s Valentine’s Day window dressing proud…or…

The fact that Mudgie evaded him when Rossi made a snatch at the ribbons draping him. That and the unusual, mincing, little step the dog executed, making the satiny coils flounce and bounce, told Rossi that the animal _enjoyed_ his transformation.

Rossi gave Marty his evilest ‘stank eye’ glare, wishing he had Hotch’s ability to bore through walls with a single glance. However, there was nothing to be done, but pick up what bits of his dignity were left and carry on as though it were just another day…as opposed to one that would live in infamy as the time Marty turned Mudgie into a creature more appropriate to a Victorian carousel, than crouched in hunterly anticipation behind a duck blind.

As he passed Fudge…sleek, black, _amused_ Fudge…Rossi’s eyes narrowed. _Your time is coming, hound. Just wait…_

It didn’t take long to locate Hotch. The wheezing, half-coughing aftermath of unaccustomed belly laughter was easy to track down. Rossi found the Unit Chief gasping on a window bench, leaning over, elbows braced on knees. The older man walked up, slapping the younger’s shoulder with the back of his hand.

“C’mon, chuckles. You need to eat.” Rossi’s tone said he really didn’t care if Hotch ever ate again, after exhibiting such enjoyment over Mudgie’s humiliation.

The dark head, bent nearly parallel with the floor, gave a brief, negative shake. The breathing continued to sound labored. Rossi frowned.

“Aaron? What’s going on?”

When it came, the answer was choked out. “Stomach…h-hurts…”

Rossi went down on one knee beside his friend, bending to look into Hotch’s face. It was a vain effort; the man’s eyes were closed. But clearly something was wrong. Reaching across Hotch, Rossi took hold of his shoulders, pushing him upright. A guttural groan of pain was the only response.

Hotch’s arms crossed over his midriff. Rossi pried them away, placing his own hand flat against his friend’s stomach.

“Jeez, Aaron.” He shook his head. “You’ve got muscle spasms.” He expelled his own gusty sigh. “My God. How long has it been since you really laughed? Never mind…I know… _too_ long, if that’s how unused your body is to that kind of exercise.”

With a grunt, he forced Hotch’s shoulders even farther back, encouraging the muscles layered over his stomach to stretch. One arm exerting pressure across his upper chest kept the Unit Chief from doubling over again. With his free hand, Rossi felt along the rock hard ridges of the upper abs, kneading with slow, firm persistence. It didn’t take too long to find the points that unlocked the contractions.

When the spasms eased, Hotch drew a shuddering breath of pure relief. Looking paler and more drained than ever, he sat straight, and very still; leery of sudden movement that might incite his muscles to renewed rebellion. Rossi sat beside him, noting the perspiration on Aaron’s brow, and the shallow, careful breaths he was taking.

“Well…I hope it was worth it.” His tone was that of an injured martyr. “Laughing at poor Mudgie’s predicament…not very nice, Aaron.”

As visions of the beribboned canine flashed past Hotch’s inner eye, a small, residual snort of laughter escaped…followed by a whimper as he bent forward again. Rossi sighed. Shaking his head, he forced his friend to straighten. Once again, he massaged the cramping muscles, muttering under his breath.

“All right…all right…just get it out of your system…poor Mudge…” After a moment, he gave Hotch’s midriff a speculative look, expression brightening.

“Actually, I’m kind of glad this happened. The one thing that’ll make Marty stand down and leave my dog alone, is if I can tell him it’s medically necessary” He gave Aaron’s middle a satisfied pat.

“And _that’s_ my proof. You, my friend, are Exhibit A in the restoration of Mudge’s dignity.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan watched the impressive bulk of Larry Freemont slump; a testimony to the burden of caring for a loved one with Alzheimer’s.

The big man leaned forward, elbows resting on his desktop as he rubbed both hands over his face, gathering his thoughts.

As brief as their contact had been, he felt comfortable with this FBI agent. He liked the sympathy and gentle understanding in his eyes for the quandary of the My Little Pony toy’s correct name; the obvious, though unvoiced, admiration he had for details of the house that also spoke to Larry’s heart; and the sense of loyalty and subtle affection when he declared his friendship for the dark-haired boy Nana had made a part of their family’s legends. All these things enticed Larry to open up; to share some of the things he kept locked within…or, at least had done so since his wife passed away.

But most of all, it was the agent’s interest in Nana Felicia. Larry could detect no self-concern, no reason to seek her out other than a desire to do something good for a friend who’d suffered and, reading between the lines, was still having a difficult time reconciling his past.

So Larry gave himself permission to ease a little of his own sorrow by taking advantage of Mr. Morgan’s interest and good nature. He didn’t know if it would help to talk, but he didn’t think it could hurt. And there really wasn’t anyone in his life he felt he could impose upon without running the risk of either imbuing them with fallout from his own regrets, or feeling uneasy about revealing some of his less savory inner turmoil. _I need a stranger. And here’s a kind stranger._

“You know my grandmother has Alzheimer’s, so I’m guessing you know where she is and how long she’s been there?” He gave a faint, grim smile. “Kinda sounds like FBI-Big-Brother’s watching, you know?”

Morgan ducked his head in apology. “Please don’t think of it as snooping for no good reason. My friend…well…he loved Felicia. He wanted to know where she is, but he’s still sick. Can’t do it himself.”

Larry nodded. “So I guess he’d like to know the whole picture?”

“He hasn’t asked for me to pry this deep, but…yeah, I thought he’d want more than just where Felicia…uh, Mrs. Davenport…is _now_.”

Freemont smiled. “You can call her ‘Felicia.’ Though I appreciate the respect you show calling her ‘Mrs.’. But her whole life, in that hole called Bluefields, in every job she had…she was just Felicia. I don’t think any of those people who hired her ever knew or ever asked for anything else.” He shook his head, pondering the life his grandmother must have lived. “It was a different world.”

Morgan nodded. “I hope so.”

Larry pulled himself up a little straighter. “So…the way the story was told to us kids, my grandmother was arrested for back-talking to some rich, fat cat, white guy. Whole town bowed to that joker. No idea why. I sure wouldn’t have.” He gazed out the window beside his desk. “Least, I don’t _think_ I would’ve. Guess you never know ‘til you’re actually in someone else’s shoes, someone else’s time though.”

He brought his eyes back to Morgan. “Anyway, the cops took her to the edge of town and waited a bit. I think they expected that bozo to have them followed; making sure his orders were carried out. When they felt they could, they took Nana back to her home. They were scared of the guy she pissed off. I think he must’ve had a hand in how they got hired or something.”

Larry shrugged. “Best they could do without risking anything was let her pick up her belongings and call her kids. She ended up leaving town, going to live with my Mama.” His lips twisted in a wry half-grin. “Things turned around for my grandmother after that. Found herself a good job with people who treated her like family. We weren’t rich by a long shot, but we did okay. We all helped each other out. Nana never did like to talk much about her life in Bluefields. Though…come to think of it…”

His brows drew together, giving Morgan a sharp look. “Lord Almighty. If Wolfie-Wild was a real boy, that explains something she used to say about that Godforsaken town.” Morgan’s own brows rose, inviting more information. “She said she was lucky to have gotten out, but she’d left what she called ‘a piece of her heart’ there. Knew she couldn’t go back, and didn’t even want to risk calling anyone there. Seemed to think contact with her would be bad luck. So…that piece of her heart…was that a little kid with hungry eyes? Was that your friend?”

Morgan nodded, deciding there wouldn’t be anything to gain by telling this man that Hotch was also the reason his kin was kicked out of town. “I think so. From what I’ve heard, they had a strong bond. Like I said…he loved her and she took care of him; helped him survive.”

 “Yeah. That sounds like her. That’s my Nana.” Larry’s eyes misted over. “ _Was_ my Nana.”

Morgan waited, sensing a change in the conversation’s direction.

“When you go to visit her now, that’s not her. Not really. And maybe your friend would be better off remembering her how she was.” He chewed on his lip, staring out the window again, but seeing some internal landscape.

“I’m sorry.” Morgan’s voice was soft, paying homage to this man’s private sorrow.

Freemont continued as though he hadn’t heard; as though he were talking to himself. _Or maybe Felicia_.

“We did our best when she started to go downhill. My wife was still alive and we took care of Nana. But…” His grimace might have been a prelude to tears; he staved them off with a deep breath. “It’s hard to watch someone you love…someone you respect…turn into a stranger. And you keep telling yourself you’re doing what’s right, but…” He shook his head. “…you’re not sure. As she got worse, Nana strained our whole family. I still can’t help thinking how, if she knew what was happening to her mind, she must’ve been…so…so…scared. And maybe that’s what made her so difficult, so _angry_ sometimes.

“After my wife, my Delia, died, it got worse. I had to think of my girls. Nana was scaring them. And I didn’t want them to remember her that way. I couldn’t handle working, _and_ raising two kids on my own, _and_ taking care of her.”

He gave Morgan a dark look, full of self-recrimination. “The worst part of it is that you start to resent them. No matter how you explain to yourself that they’re sick and they can’t help yelling at you, or being unreasonable…you feel like you’re tied up in knots the whole time you’re in your own home…you resent them. And then you start to hate _yourself_ for being like that.” He paused for a moment, still feeling the bitter aftertaste of Alzheimer’s in what should have been fond remembrances.

“I’ll always believe that no matter how much I did, or how hard I tried, that I could’ve done it with better grace.” He shook his head, lips compressed.

“No. That’s not right. I don’t have that kind of grace in me…to be endlessly patient and to overlook someone being rude and demanding when you think they should be grateful.”

He hung his head “I’m just not a caregiver. So I put Nana in a home. I feel like I should be able to do it, but I’m just not a caregiver.”

Faint, but with a tone of imperious insistence, the voice of the little princess in the living room rang out. “D-a-a-a-d-d-e-e-e-e-e!”

Larry rubbed his sleeve across his nose and eyes, wiping away the evidence of Daddy’s upset.

“In a minute, sweetheart!” The loud bellow erased any lingering sound of congestion that stifled tears might have caused. He drew a deep breath and stood. “Little one needs me. We about done here?”

“Uh…sure…yeah…” Morgan rose from his chair, looking at this large man who’d taken a day off to cater to his daughter’s needs. _‘Not a caregiver’ my ass. Cares a lot…and has a big heart. But has limits. Everyone does. I bet Felicia’d be proud, if she knew._

Morgan followed his host down the hall.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Freemont. And your candor. It’ll mean a lot to my friend that Felicia was looked after and had family around her…and still does.”

Larry sighed. “Well, I gotta say, you gave as good as you got. Didn’t know that boy she talked of was real…and I guess I used you to say some things I needed to get out. Sorry if it made you uncomfortable.”

“Not at all.” Morgan offered his hand. “It was good meeting you.”

Freemont’s shake enveloped Morgan’s.

They passed the living room entrance on the way to the front door. Morgan glanced in and faltered.

Larry’s little daughter was singing in a sweet, childish lisp; cradling the lavender toy called Tiddly Wink, and singing to it of its kin.

 

“Blacks and bays…

“Dapples and grays…

“All the pretty little horses…

“Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry…

“When you wake you shall have…

“All the pretty little horses…”

 


	98. Desserts, Just and Un-

Morgan sat in his SUV outside Larry Freemont’s restored, antebellum masterpiece and saw nothing of his surroundings.

Gaze turned inward, he was reviewing their conversation. And through it all, like an undercurrent, played the haunting, sweet strains of the lullaby Freemont’s little girl had been singing as he left.

_He thinks he’s lost his grandmother to Alzheimer’s. He’s wrong. Maybe the woman in the nursing home **isn’t** the Felicia he knew…but he hasn’t lost all of her. The cautionary tale of a dark-haired kid with hungry eyes…that song his daughter was singing…and most of all, the sense of respect and care and loyalty…the things that are at the root of how he behaves, how he deals with the people and events of his life …all that’s from her…passed down through generations. He hasn’t lost her. And maybe we never lose our loved ones. Maybe they just…transform…but they **do** survive. They survive long after we’ve lost them physically. Influence is their immortality._

Closing his eyes, Morgan let his head fall against the seatback.

So many twisted threads wove through this tapestry that comprised the Hotch-Felicia relationship. It was a work of overlapping themes, but he knew that all lives, all families, spun similar designs.

 _And if we add in the other influences in our lives…our friends, our co-workers,…the families we create, rather than the ones into which we’re born…_ He opened his eyes, envisioning connections unique in their complexity and inclusiveness. _And I’m part of this now, too._ He smiled. _If nothing else, that damn melody is gonna creep up on me when I least expect it._

Morgan’s smile faded. _And if I ever have a kid of my own, they’ll hear it, too._

 _Felicia’s not gone. She’s still moving through the world._ He glanced back at the fine, old house where a father was caring for his daughter.

_But it hurts to say goodbye…especially the prolonged, cruel one Alzheimer’s inflicts._

Taking a breath, Morgan changed the coordinates in his GPS for the nursing home where a lady who had left a touch of kindness in Hotch’s past, waited.

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi was sorting things out at his mansion.

The doctor had raised a skeptical brow at his claim that Mudgie’s appearance was inimical to Aaron’s health. But, running a hand over Hotch, Marty had found him sore, particularly around the old rib injury, which was apparently aggravated by laughter. So the doctor had relented, giving his reluctant guarantee that the dog would be restored to sober dignity, thereby assuring Aaron’s unimpeded recovery.

Marty and Jack had adjourned to the den where they were de-ribboning Mudge; a process accompanied by snorts and giggles that undermined any trust Rossi might have gained when it came to further adventures in accessorizing his dog. Every time he passed Fudge, he gave her thick, black fur a calculating look. But the kind of creative revenge Mudgie’s vandalization required didn’t come to Rossi with the natural, effortless ease others could claim. Still…he studied the black Lab.

Hotch was working his way through breakfast, although the best that could be said of his efforts were that they evinced obedience, rather than enthusiasm. He watched Rossi pass by several times, taking note of his interest in Marty’s dog.

He thought he understood. And even though it gave his stomach muscles a twinge of pain, Hotch couldn’t help envisioning possible…alterations…the doctor’s dog might undergo. The fourth time Rossi paused before the languid, lazy form stretched in a patch of hazy sunlight, Hotch spoke up.

“That’s a good looking dog, don’t’cha think?”

Pulled from his thoughts, Rossi gave his friend a blank look. “What’s that?”

“Marty’s dog. Looks nice.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Rossi wasn’t in the mood to praise the property of a man who’d defaced his Mudge.

“Dave…you know what that dog’s fur reminds me of?”

Rossi was about to tell Aaron to be quiet and use his energy to eat more when he glanced up, catching a mischievous glint and the ghost of a fox-grin that he hadn’t seen in quite some time. He gave the younger man a wary look out of the corner of his eye.

“N-o-o-o-o. What does that fur remind you of, Aaron?”

“Black as night. Reminds me of the night sky.”

Rossi continued to regard Hotch with the utmost suspicion…and just a touch of hope.

“You know…the sky at night. Filled with stars.” Hotch lowered his gaze back to his plate, picking at his food, exuding innocence. “Just sayin’…big gold and silver stars…”

Dave couldn’t be sure. The man was sick and had been put through several cycles of an emotional spin-dry. He stepped close, taking Hotch’s chin between firm fingers, tipping it up to force eye contact. Lurking in the depths of the dark eyes was that elusive, darting glint. The kind that presaged minor mayhem.

He couldn’t be sure. Did he imagine the slight transformation? Were the eyes tilting upward at their outer edges?

Hotch’s fox-face showed itself in a sly flash, quickly subdued.

And Rossi was sure. He let his own grin express appreciation and gratitude for some much-needed inspiration…and a partner in crime.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan cut the engine, surveying the Richmond Care Center from his parking space opposite the main entrance.

The building was well-maintained. The grounds looked clean and manicured. But he detected the determined cheerfulness that attended facilities for the ultimately hopeless. _Stop it. You’re carrying a lot of baggage with you right after talking to Freemont. Don’t let it color this place any more than you let personal feelings color a crime scene._

He exited the SUV, proceeding to the wide, glass doors and the reception desk he could see just beyond.

The lobby was small, but homey. Morgan could hear a television tuned to a loud volume in a room off the hall, exhorting viewers to call in if they wanted to be part of the studio audience. He glimpsed several residents and guessed it was a lounge or rec room.

“May I help you?” The woman at the desk wore a nurse’s uniform, which Morgan found reassuring. He liked the idea of someone with medical training available to greet visitors.

“I hope so.” He gave his best charm-them-‘til-they-drop smile. “I’m here to see Felicia Davenport.”

The nurse gained more points by knowing to whom he referred without consulting any charts or lists. “Ah, yes. Mrs. Davenport.” She pushed back from the desk, rising and coming around to stand beside Morgan. “Are you a relative?”

“Uh, no. But I just came from her grandson, Lawrence Freemont. He said it was okay to see her.”

A warm smile and a pat on his arm accompanied words that put to rest any concerns about being granted access to Felicia. “That’s alright. Mrs. Davenport’s allowed visitors.”

Morgan had a momentary worry about the nurse leaving her post when she motioned him to follow her. But the room to which he was directed was scant feet away.

“She’s right here. Likes to sit by the window, I think, though that might just be my interpretation.” The nurse tilted her head at the figure in a wheelchair, back to the door. “She hasn’t spoken a word for over a year now, but sometimes I catch her smiling.” Her voice softened. “I like to think that means she’s happy somewhere inside herself. Maybe reliving good times, you know?”

Morgan looked down at the nurse, grateful for the hopeful air she carried about her.

“That’d be nice.” He took a step into the room.

“If you need anything, I’m right out here.” She watched Morgan’s cautious approach to Felicia. “She’s due for lunch in about forty-five minutes. You’re welcome to join her, if you want. I can let them know to bring you a tray.”

Morgan glanced back at her, smiling. “Thanks, but I don’t know that I’ll be staying that long. I just wanted to check up on her…see how she’s doing.”

“I understand. I’m out here, if you need anything,” she repeated, leaving the door ajar as she returned to the front desk.

Morgan’s smile faded.

He moved to stand beside the woman in the wheelchair, looking down at a face whose expression remained distant.

She was a big woman. He recalled Rossi saying Hotch had dreamt of being enveloped in a warmth that made him feel safe. Morgan could believe it. Even now, he imagined the rangy Unit Chief could be hugged into submission by this woman’s large, maternal presence.

He dropped to one knee, looking into a face worn with time and care. _…And a life well-lived…_

“Mrs. Davenport? My name’s Derek Morgan. We’ve never met, but we have a connection…a mutual friend.” Nothing changed. No ghost of recognition or interest passed across the calm features.

“His name’s Aaron…Aaron Hotchner. You knew him a long time ago. In Bluefields.”

Nothing. Morgan felt his throat tighten. He would have loved to bring Hotch some words of comfort; something healing from a past filled with horror. And somehow, knowing how brave, how heroic this woman had been in that far off time and place, made it all the more difficult to see her now. So still. So isolated. So final.

Morgan bit his lip for a moment, regaining control so his voice wouldn’t sound choked.

“Mrs. Davenport, I don’t know if you can hear me. I wish you could. ‘Cause Aaron Hotchner’s one hell of a good man…and I bet you had something to do with that. He’d be here now, but he’s sick. Not serious…so don’t worry or anything…But…” Morgan ducked his head.

“Ah, hell. All I really wanna say is ‘thank you.’ I don’t know if Hotch…uh,… _Aaron_ …would be the same guy if you hadn’t been there for him and stood up against his daddy. Might not even be alive, except for you. So…thanks. Thanks for my friend. I know what happened to you wasn’t fair and wasn’t easy, but maybe, in the end, it was worth it. ‘Cause Aaron Hotchner’s worth it.”

He took a deep breath, watching the sunlight fall on a face that remained utterly immobile. After several minutes of silence, Morgan nodded, acknowledging to himself that he’d tried.

He stood. Pulling out his phone, he debated taking Felicia’s picture. After a moment of considered thought, he slipped it back in his pocket.

It didn’t feel right…photographing her without her knowledge. _If Hotch wants to know what she looks like now, he’ll have to make the trip. I think he’d prefer that anyway._

With one last whispered ‘thank you,’ Morgan left Felicia to her room, and her sunlight, and her silence.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Marty groaned, pushing himself to his feet.

He and Jack had untied and unglued every last shining, corkscrew curl from Mudge’s body.

The dog had exhibited patient good humor, submitting to tugs and pulls and the occasional scissor-snip. He had been rewarded with a thorough combing; a process that sent shivers of enjoyment quivering through his pelt.

Listening to his joints pop, the doctor gathered up an armful of used ribbons, glad the chore was finally finished. Mudgie, however, looked disconsolate. He’d enjoyed the attention and sensed that the festive finery draping his body had been a crucial element in his being the focal point of so much activity. His tail drooped.

“Jack, why don’t you take that beast outside and run him around for a while, huh?”

“Yeah!”

Sensing the boy’s enthusiasm, Mudge’s tail resumed standard operating procedure…wagging with a _joie de vivre_ Marty envied. Smiling, he watched boy and dog race across the foyer to the front door.

Picking up the last few stray bits of ribbon, he worked the stiffness out of his bones in the walk to the kitchen. Intent on keeping the profusion of ribbons from escaping his grip until he reached the trash can under the sink, he walked through the door and across the floor, barely registering Fudge’s laconic presence.

But something impinged on his senses. Something… _wrong_ …

With slow deliberation, Marty turned to take a better look at his dog.

Resplendent in the noonday sun, Fudge shone and flashed.

Snout to tail…in whorls and patterns…the inky black fur had been covered with dozens, if not hundreds, of stickers…gold and silver stars.

Marty blinked. A galaxy glittered back at him.

_Damn you, Dave! You turned my dog into a planetarium!_


	99. Shifting Stars

Marty stared at his star-studded dog. He was stunned.

He narrowed his eyes at the masses of ribbon still clutched in his arms. It was tempting to _do_ something with them _other_ than dump them in the trash. Something Dave would _hate_. But he couldn’t think what…

_You bedazzled my dog, Dave. You’re Italian. You understand vendetta. You know there are repercussions for such deeds._

But for lack of an appropriate idea, and because he knew that retribution should be a thing of beauty, crafted with care…not a knee-jerk impulse of revenge, he deposited the ribbons gleaned from Mudgie’s transformation in the trash. And then, he stood very still…listening.

No sounds were discernible except for the squeals and barks of Jack and Mudge, playing outside in Rossi’s spacious yard. Marty had a feeling Dave would be upstairs, hiding behind still-sick Aaron and his aching stomach muscles. His impulse was to confront the man who’d stickered Fudge, turning his dog into a star-crossed mess. But he didn’t want to leave Jack unattended, especially when he was outdoors.

With a disgruntled sigh, Marty bent his knees that still felt stiff from working on Mudge and began the laborious process of peeling tiny, adhesive stars off of black Lab fur.

It was an almost therapeutic pastime.

Calming in its repetitive nature.

Conducive to thought.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Upstairs, Rossi was indeed busy; but not hiding behind Aaron.

He’d unearthed an old, electric heating pad. Plugging it in, he’d settled Hotch on his back with the pad warming his sore midriff. Then, he’d begun phase two of Operation Galaxy Dog.

Once he and Hotch had decorated Fudge…a relatively quick procedure with two grown men working at their best speed…the Unit Chief had suggested Rossi take a few photos. The older man hadn’t really cared about memorializing the glittering animal, but Hotch’s fox-face had accompanied the proposal. With a wicked shiver of inner glee, Rossi had complied.

Now, he was hard at work online, having Fudge’s starry image applied to all manner of merchandise. Mugs, mousepads, posters, calendars…Rossi intended to present Marty with something to commemorate Fudge’s new look on every possible occasion for the next few years.

_Birthdays…Veteran’s Day…Christmas…Easter…Fourth of July…Flag Day…Arbor Day…to name just a few…yes…I’ll need lots and lots of Fudge-ware._

When he thought he heard the doctor’s footsteps in the hallway, he saved his work and froze, listening….But the steps entered Hotch’s room.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Rossi tip-toed down the hall. Sliding past Aaron’s door, he sneaked down the stairs. He could continue his project on the computer in his home office. It would take Marty a little while longer to discover his location.

Just enough time to guarantee a wealth of Galaxy Dog encounters in the doctor’s future.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Headed back toward Quantico, Morgan pulled his phone out…and hesitated.

Then, for the second time that day, he replaced it in his pocket without using it.

He wanted to let Hotch know that he’d seen Felicia. But he realized the best way to do it was face to face. Since she hadn’t spoken, all he could do was tell Hotch how the lady looked. He decided against calling because the situation wasn’t something he felt could be dismissed with a few words across a phone connection. Plus, there was the legacy of the boy with hungry eyes. Morgan wanted to be there when he told Hotch how he lived on in the lives of Felicia’s descendants.

Now that his quest was almost over, he felt an inner fatigue that had nothing to do with spending a couple of days on the road.

_Hotch had one helluva depressing childhood._

Morgan felt the sheer weight of injustice and pain on his friend’s behalf. The protective side of him wanted to get home and take a look at his leader with new eyes. Eyes that could appreciate and sympathize more than they had a few days earlier.

_I’m tired because I’m bringing Hotch heavy news; news that isn’t happy. It’s not really **bad** , but it won’t lift any of the sadness he carries inside._

Morgan sighed, accelerating just an little over the speed limit.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to rest until he’d seen Hotch. Even if the man was asleep, he wanted to look at him.

_Maybe I need reassurance that, even rooted in hell, he’s okay now. I just need to look at him. I need to know that when I do, I’ll feel more respect than pity._

With a yawn, and a deeper sense of brotherhood, Morgan headed home.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Marty peered into Hotch’s room, expecting to find a slinking, despicable Rossi using his younger friend as a shield to deflect any Fudge-related retaliation.

But the interior was Rossi-less, devoid of Fudge-defacing Italians.

_He’s up here somewhere. I’ll find him. It’s just a matter of time._

The doctor had corralled Jack and the dogs on the patio with strict instructions to stay within its confines. He’d cleaned up the Lab and had transferred the still-tacky stars to Rossi’s prized chair in the den. It had taken a while, but the end effect was worth it. Marty’s intention now was to invite Rossi to sit with him for another of their comfortable talks before the fire; extending the request with a nonchalance that would prick at Dave, making him wonder why the doctor wasn’t frothing at the mouth over Fudge’s conversion from dog to astral chart.  The reason would become clear when Rossi found his throne-of-stars waiting for him in the den.

But no Dave.

The medical professional in Marty asserted itself over the vengeance-minded pet owner. He saw his patient stretched out, lying still, one arm flung upward shielding his eyes. It was a posture that could signify exhaustion as easily as relaxed contemplation. The doctor approached the bed, noting as he got closer the electrical cords running from the heating pad to a nearby wall outlet.

With as gentle a touch as he could manage, he rested his fingertips on the apparatus covering Hotch’s midsection. Warmth radiated from it. He brushed his fingers against Hotch’s forehead. Warmth radiated there, too.

_Still has a low-grade fever. It should break in the next couple of days, though. He’ll be alright. Physically, anyway._

Hotch’s arm moved, uncovering his eyes.

“Hi, Marty.”

“Aaron.” The doctor nodded a greeting. “Did I wake you?”

“No. Just thinking.”

“Well, you have a lot to think about. The last couple of days have been pretty full for you, haven’t they…” Marty sat at the bedside, voice hushed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Hotch’s eyes moved from side to side, weighing the pros and cons of discussing feelings and memories he hadn’t really had a chance to come to terms with on his own. Marty waited; composed, exerting no pressure. At last, Hotch shrugged, placing a hand over the heating pad, pressing it close, encouraging the heat to edge out the soreness. A part of his mind found it a grim reflection on his whole life, that laughter was so foreign it hurt.

“I don’t know. It’s all too…much. I need time to think it through. But…thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” The doctor placed one hand over Hotch’s, giving it a brief, companionable pat. “I’m here if you need me…But…” His voice faltered, hesitating to broach any more potentially painful subject matter.

Hotch’s eyes sought contact. “What?”

Marty studied his patient’s face, gaging his stamina, both physical and emotional. “I was just wondering…”

Hotch turned his head on the pillow, focusing direct attention on the doctor, inviting elaboration.

Marty took a deep breath. He rested his hand on the heating pad, pressing a gentle message of support. “You never talk about your mother, Aaron. Why not?”

Hotch’s eyes moved, traveling an inner landscape composed more of time than terrain. He chewed his lip, considering. “I don’t know.” His brows rose and fell; as eloquent as a shrug. “I  don’t think she paid much attention to me.”

“Why do you think that is?” Marty hoped he wasn’t stirring up another deep pool of emotional turmoil. Aaron had been through enough. The man was correct in his self-assessment; he needed time to sift through recovered memories and the feelings attached to them.

“I don’t know,” Hotch repeated. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Sometimes I think she didn’t _want_ to notice me.” A few painful beats passed. His voice lowered. “Sometimes I think she couldn’t stand to look at me.”

The doctor kept silent, regretting he might have opened more wounds in a man already riddled with them.

“Sometimes I think she might have blamed me for how my Dad was.” Hotch swallowed. “I don’t know what their life was like before I was born. Maybe I was the cause of, well…everything bad.”

 _Now I’ve done it_ , Marty sighed. _Better at least get him through to a place where he can take a more objective view of his place in that travesty of a family._

Aloud, he offered what he hoped would be accepted as a more likely interpretation. “Maybe your mother was trying to keep you off your father’s radar. Maybe if she’d paid more attention to you, he would have, too. The worst kind of attention. The kind that hurt you. Maybe she was averting her own interest in you in the hopes of _di_ verting your father’s.”

Hotch looked thoughtful. “Maybe.” He sighed again, closing his eyes. “I don’t know. Hard to imagine things being any worse. Some of it’s still blurry. I guess there’s a lot I’ll never be sure of.”

Marty watched him for a moment. He stood up, giving Hotch’s chest a parting pat. “Get some rest. I’ll check in on you a little later.”

“Mmmmm…”

The doctor left, hoping that he’d sidestepped what might be another minefield in the battleground of Aaron’s past.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Downstairs, Rossi logged off his office computer, his smile devious enough to rival Hotch’s fox-face. Merchandise bearing the likeness of a star-spangled Fudge should begin arriving within a few days.

Feeling he deserved a reward, and thinking he should check on Jack, whose piping voice could be heard raised in conversation with his canine companions, Rossi headed toward the nearest patio entrance…a route that took him past his den.

He strode by the open door…and halted. Backing up a few paces, Rossi blinked at his favorite, leather chair. His eyes narrowed. Clearly, this was the work of a vengeful Marty. The chair winked and shone. He could only imagine how it would look in the light of flames dancing within the fireplace.

 _Not a pretty sight._ _Correction. Actually it’s **very** pretty… **girlishly, whimsically**_ _pretty._

In Rossi’s rustic, masculine lair…his haven…his safe harbor…the chair he most looked forward to at the end of every day appeared to have been tapped with a fairy’s magic wand. He took a step closer. The doctor had one-upped him. The stars had been brushed over with some of Jack’s washable markers. No longer silver and gold…they glistened in translucent pastels…pale pink and lavender and baby blue.

And there were so many of them. A full Labrador’s pelt-worth.

Grim with purpose, Rossi turned on his heel and headed back to his office.

He hoped it wasn’t too late to put a rush delivery on his merchandise order.


	100. Touching Bases

Once Marty left, Hotch resumed his position…arm raised, forearm resting across his eyes, blocking the day’s waning light.

Despite his sore midsection and the dour implications of muscles so unused to mirth they protested its expression, he’d felt a small bubble of hope earlier in the day. But now, alone and aching, without the distraction of mischievous dog-decoration, he felt his thoughts growing dark.

Marty’s questions about his mother hadn’t helped.

_Okay, Mr. Profiler…do what you’re paid to do…time to earn your keep. How do you feel about your mother? Marty’s right: you never talk about her. Not that you run off at the mouth about your Dad, but he’s the parent that pops to the surface whenever your guard’s down._

_That’s easy. It’s because he was the bigger force in your life. He had a lot more to do with forming you into what you are today. Or, at least his part was more… **memorable** …_

_But Mom…?_

Hotch felt his mind balk at digging deeper. An almost physical rebellion to probing at emotional wounds that were so prolific they felt as though they were joining together, melding and blending until his psyche was raw hamburger rather than something suffering individual, identifiable slashes.

His deep sigh was redolent with defeat.

 _I need to empathize with myself. That’s…just…not…possible. Not really. It always veers off course and people who do it become mired in self-pity or ego or paranoia._ Hotch felt a grim smile trace his lips. **_That’s_** _why psychiatry is such a burgeoning business. We need a steady, impartial hand on the tiller, keeping us from getting lost, **if** we choose to enter that fun house inside our own skulls._

_That’s why it helps to talk to someone. Anyone, really…_

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan checked in with Garcia mostly to break up the tedium of the drive home…partly because the more he thought about Hotch, the more convoluted the man’s past seemed, and the more of a conundrum he became.

 _How the hell did he turn out normal? **Is** he normal? That’s probably a better question…But, then, what’s ‘normal?’ I’ve been through my share of crap for a lifetime, too. Am **I** ‘normal?’_ He shook himself as best he could behind the wheel, trying to clear the endlessly twining paths of supposition from his mind.

 _I need to get out of my own head._ And that was when the spectre of Morgan’s glittery, feathery friend popped up like a spangled oasis of cheerful distraction. Smiling, he pulled out his phone, depressing the speed dial number that belonged to her, and always would.

“Derek!”

“Hey, Baby Girl.”

“Are you okay? Where are you? Are you okay?”

No matter the circumstances, no matter the location, Garcia always sounded breathless and on the alert. It made Morgan feel special. He’d never admit it, but that quality she had that might make others nervous and edgy in response, made him feel as though she’d been thinking of him that very moment; had been on the verge of calling him herself. It was like knowing someone waited for you, no matter where you were, or how long it might be before you returned. It was nice. It was like a candle in the window, faithfully beckoning you home. He was warmed by her light, feeling that small, golden flame even across a wireless connection.

“I’m okay, Mama. I’m on my way home. Should be back in the office tomorrow.”

“Oh…oh…that’s good.” She hesitated, and he could hear the battle between curiosity and decorum in her voice. “Sooooo…was it a _good_ trip? Worthwhile? Productive?”

Morgan sighed, knowing the sound carried to Garcia, knowing she’d interpret it as a sign that the road traveled hadn’t been a smooth one; counting on her doing so, in fact.

“Ohhhh…my Obsidian Prince. It wasn’t all roses and jellybeans, was it…Ohhhhh. I’m sorry…” Genuine concern colored her voice. “Do you wanna talk about it? Derek?”

He did, but…

“I can’t. It’s just…sometimes I think about things too much and I begin to wonder the big ‘W’ about it all. You know…the ‘WHY’ of it.” His voice lowered, sympathy and concern for the little, lost boy Hotch had been leaking out around the edges. “Sometimes I think there is no purpose to anything that happens in this world. It’s all just a big, random mess…you know?”

“I know. This is about Boss-man, right?” Garcia hurried on before Morgan could respond. “If you need to talk to someone, Derek, I promise…I promise on every pair of shoes I own, on every pair of glasses, on my troll doll collection…I’ll listen, and I won’t spill a word of it to anyone, especially the Hotch-rocket.”

A deep chuckle came back at her. “Why d’you call him that anyway, Garcia? Why ‘Hotch-rocket?’”

“Well…once you light his fuel, there’s no stopping him. If you try, he’ll probably explode and take out everyone around him. He’s gonna launch and keep going ‘til he reaches his target or burns out on the way.” A small, thoughtful note entered. “Lift-off can be a little scary, but it kinda makes you proud, too. And when he comes back, he’s all burned out. All the fuel is gone…all used up inside…” Her voice trailed off.

“Baby Girl, if I  could talk about it, you’d be the one I’d choose. But, same as before…it’s not my story to tell.” Another deep sigh conveyed Morgan’s weariness and regret.

“Well, okay…so, maybe you could come over and we won’t talk about it at all. We’ll watch old movies and I’ll make popcorn…” Rustling noises filtered over the connection. “…I’ve got bacon-cheddar-cheese popcorn. I’ve never tried it before. Looks greasy even from the outside. You wanna?”

At last the full-blown smile he’d hoped she’d trigger spread across Morgan’s face. “I’d like that, Mama. I might be late, though. I wanna stop in and see Hotch first. After that? If it’s not too late?”

“Oh, my Melted Molasses Confection…it’s _never_ too late.”

Morgan closed the connection, secure in the knowledge that his candle was burning in the window, waiting for his homecoming with bacon-cheddar popcorn.

 

xxxxxxx

 

When Morgan arrived at Rossi’s mansion, he sensed more was going on than met his eye.

There was a furtiveness about the place.

Rossi’s friend, the doctor, opened the door to him, but made some excuse about being in the middle of something and cat-footed away, glancing around corners and over his shoulder as he went.

Jack was dozing off in front of the television, bracketed by the two dogs. He gave Morgan a sleepy wave, telling him that Daddy felt better, but was upstairs resting…and, no, he didn’t know where Poppi was. But he thought he was playing hide-and-seek with Dr. Palmer.

Morgan chose not to look into the matter any deeper. He’d come to see Hotch.

He trudged toward the stairs, and when he heard a scuffling noise from the direction of the den that sounded like someone taking cover, he quickened his steps. He wanted to see Rossi, too, before he left…but not if it meant getting caught in the crossfire of some undefined turf war.

He pushed open Hotch’s door.

The Unit Chief was on his back, one arm crossed over his eyes. Morgan couldn’t tell whether or not he was awake.

_But all I really need for now is to look at him…to see the kid in the man…to tell myself he’s okay…_

Frowning, he noticed the heating pad. _Uh-oh. What’d you do to yourself this time, Hotch?_

The man’s breathing was slow and even. Morgan risked lifting the edge of the pad and peering beneath it. Of course, there was nothing to see. Any new injury was hidden under the thin fabric of Hotch’s t-shirt. With the utmost care, Morgan settled the pad back in place. Straightening, he scanned his boss’ still form.

“Need something, Morgan?” The deep, rumbling voice made Derek take a backward step.

He gave his head a rueful shake. “Man, I thought you were asleep.” He tapped an accusatory finger against Hotch’s chest. “Faker.”

Hotch’s arm remained over his eyes, but his grin flashed white for a moment. It was quick to fade. He brought his arm down, searching Morgan’s face. “You’re back.”

“Yeah.” Derek sat down at the bedside, nodding at the heating pad. “What’s that about? What happened?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Yeah?” Morgan put a tentative hand on Hotch’s midriff. Keeping a close watch on his boss’ face, he moved his fingers over the area, exerting light pressure. Hotch’s face didn’t give anything away, but Morgan felt the muscles flinch and tighten. Nodding, he patted the taut stomach. “Well, it’s not too bad, but it _does_ hurt. I can tell you that.”

Hotch’s steady regard was open, questioning. “What else can you tell me?”

Morgan took a deep breath. “You know what went down in Bluefields and Tazewell. So, I guess the only thing we need to talk about is Richmond.”

“Felicia?”

Morgan nodded. “Yeah. Felicia. And her family. And how you’ve been remembered.”

Hotch’s brows rose. “I’ve been remembered? Felicia remembers me?”

Morgan bit his lip, head executing a slow shake. “I don’t know about that. I saw her, but…that’s all. She didn’t talk to me.” He locked eyes with Hotch. “Maybe it’d be different for you.”

“You think she’d remember me?”

Morgan could hear hope underlying the question. And maybe a breath of fear that the answer would be ‘no.’

“I can’t know for sure, Hotch. No one can. You’ll need to ask her yourself.” Morgan shifted, leaning in closer. “But she remembered you for a long time. Brought you with her out of Bluefields and made you part of her people.”

His voice grew almost reverent as he offered what little he could to his friend and leader. “She made you a family legend, Hotch. You’re the boy with hungry eyes. And they still talk about you.”

Hotch’s eyes were locked on Morgan’s, full of hope and the need to believe that for Felicia the memory of Aaron Hotchner wasn’t limited to the injustice and anger that had been inflicted on her by his father.

Morgan saw his friend’s raw need and swallowed.

_He still has hungry eyes. All these years later, and he still has hungry eyes._

 


	101. Growing Pains

Something in the way Morgan was looking at him demanded Hotch’s attention.

He owed this man gratitude and, as far as he was able, explanations.

He struggled to a sitting position, wincing as his upper abs contracted against laughter-induced soreness. Morgan noticed. Slipping one powerful hand behind Hotch’s shoulders, he supported him to the bedside, sparing his stomach muscles most of the effort.

He shook his head as the Unit Chief settled himself on the edge of the mattress. “Dunno what you did, Hotch…but you’re hurting.”

“Yeah, well…not a big deal.” He straightened his posture, unconsciously rubbing the palm of one hand against the tender area.

Still shaking his head, Morgan pulled the heating pad over and slapped it against his boss’ midriff. Taking Hotch’s wrist, he placed his hand over the pad. “There. Hold it there…and if it’s the rib thing again, I’ll get some ice to finish it off.”

Hotch cooperated, pressing the warmth into himself, taking a moment to appreciate its comfort.

“I’m okay, Morgan. I just have a few things I need to say.” He took a breath, composing himself. “I know what you’ve been doing for the last couple of days hasn’t been easy. I’m sorry I couldn’t take care of all this myself, but, honestly, I don’t think I could’ve handled it as well as you have.” He paused, making sure Morgan’s eyes were locked on his own. “I’m always grateful for your help, but this…this was so…personal…so much more…well…just…thank you.”

Morgan ran a brotherly hand down one of Hotch’s arms, squeezing the bicep; a silent way of expressing that he’d felt honored to have been entrusted with this mission; to have been allowed to see so deeply into his boss’ background.

Hotch didn’t pull away or tense; he let himself be touched. It was another demonstration of the trust he felt Morgan had more than earned. But he did pull a little straighter, adjusting the heating pad against himself.

Once again, Morgan observed the maneuver, shaking his head, but with a wry smile this time. “Swear to God, man. I can’t leave you alone for a minute. Turn my back and you go and get yourself banged up again. And again. And again.”

Hotch’s eyes flickered with answering humor. “You sound just like my mo…”

The words died on Hotch’s lips, his face draining to an icy pallor.

Morgan’s smile fled. “H-o-t-c-h? What’s wrong?”

A small head shake was the only answer Hotch gave, his eyes darting as they tracked inner visions. Morgan moved to sit on the bed beside his friend, one arm reaching across the man’s shoulders.

“I sound like what? Like…your mother? Is that it? Hotch?”

Aaron licked his lips; speech clearly costing him. “Uh…yeah…yeah…I…uh…” After a quick glance at the man sitting beside him, Hotch leaned over, burying his face in his hands.

Alarmed, Morgan tightened his hold, slipping one hand in to keep the forgotten heating pad in place. “C’mon, man. It’s alright. You can tell me.”

The sharp gasp Hotch gave said that he’d been holding his breath. He inhaled like a drowning man, lungs deprived of oxygen. His words were halting. “You…guys…don’t…get it…”

Morgan bit his lip, wishing Rossi would appear. He was the one with parental power over this man. Derek guessed that was what the situation called for.

“Hotch, I can’t pretend to know anything of what you went through when you were a kid, or what you’re feeling now, but…” He tried to rub a comforting message through the shoulder within his grasp. “…but if you’re remembering stuff, you can tell me. If it’ll help, you can tell me.”

“No…you guys…don’t…get it…” Hotch curled in tighter on himself.

“Try me, Hotch.” A miserable, pleading note crept into Morgan’s voice. “Just try me.”

“Can’t.” With effort that made him tremble, Hotch pulled his hands from his face, turning to look into Morgan’s eyes, wanting him to understand.

“When the memories…come…it’s _all_ of them….Can’t control…Can’t…stop…” He buried his face again, rocking slightly with the pain of emotional flooding. His last words on the subject fell just short of a whimper. “ _All_ of them come…at once…”

“Okay…okay…” Morgan pulled his friend as close as he could, reminding himself to be careful of old injuries; not to squeeze too tightly.

“‘S okay, Hotch. Just let them come. If you can’t stop them…then, just let them come. ‘S okay…’S okay…”

Morgan rested his chin on top of the dark head bent beside him, realizing his concerns about how he’d view Hotch with an altered perspective acquired during a few days of poking into the man’s past…were baseless.

_He’s human. And he hurts. And when he hides it, I think he does it for our sake more than his own. And I don’t think this’ll break him. This isn’t weakness…These are growing pains._

_He’ll move past this, but he’ll find a way to use it. All this…stuff…that hurts him; he won’t fall before it. He’ll find a way to use it. He always does_.

_But maybe this time, he’ll let me help._

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Truce?”

Rossi held out his finest bottle of Scotch, tilting it back and forth; the better to showcase the tempting, amber contents. This particular treasure had been acquired at auction nearly a decade ago, set aside for either a momentous occasion…or a moment of considerable need.

That moment of need had arrived.

Marty raised his chin, inspecting his friend and the situation through a sidelong, suspicious eye. “I’d be more inclined to accept if that bottle of Elmer’s glue wasn’t poking out of your pocket, Dave.”

Rossi nodded, holding the doctor in his steady gaze. “Tell you what…you put that package of glitter on the counter…and I’ll get rid of the glue. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Both men moved with the caution of experienced gunslingers, depositing their respective contraband a safe arm’s length away. But Rossi hadn’t been in the business of profiling for nothing.

“Okay. Now the rest, Marty.” He resumed tilting the Scotch bottle, showing it to its best advantage. “Empty your pockets and we’ll sit down and discuss this like men.”

“Too late for that, Dave. Right now the most mature person here…downstairs, anyway…is that five-year-old watching T.V.” Nonetheless, the doctor pulled three more packets of glitter from various hiding places, laying them on the counter beside the first. He stepped back, displaying his empty hands, palms outward. “That’s it. I got nothin’.”

Rossi surveyed him for a moment, debating the possibility of a strategic ambush…and decided against it. Marty didn’t have the ability to dissemble to that extent.

And besides, Rossi really wanted a drink.

Over the last hour Jack’s store of arts-and-crafts supplies had been raided…plundered time and again. The boy didn’t mind. He’d been given the okay to go back to school by Dr. Palmer. All this time alone with Daddy had been fun, but he was ready to see his friends again, and looking forward to showing them the Raspberry Leopard spot on his shoulder. And being able to tell them that he’d be getting a _real_ tattoo just like it…and that Daddy would get one, too…now _that_ was something to look forward to.

So Jack sat back and watched as Poppi and the doctor engaged in some incomprehensible game that involved doing things to furniture and automobiles and each other that, had _he_ done it, would have landed him in what Daddy called the Big-Time Double-Trouble Doghouse.

But things were quieting down now.

Poppi and Dr. Palmer had retreated to the room with the leather chairs. Jack could hear ice cubes and quiet talk. The occasional chuckle told him whatever game they’d been playing had probably ended in a tie. Neither one sounded like a loser.

He’d seen Mr. Morgan go upstairs to see Daddy. It had been a while, so he thought it would be alright if he joined them.

Patting Mudgie and Fudge to let them know he wasn’t abandoning them, Jack trudged up the stairs, dreaming of the day he could take them two at a time the way Mr. Morgan could.


	102. Stitch in Time

“‘S okay….‘S okay…”

Morgan didn’t let go, but he did keep reminding himself not to squeeze too hard. Hotch needed comfort and a stabilizing force; something Rossi was much better and more experienced at providing. But Morgan thought he was doing a pretty good job, all things considered. As long as he didn’t aggravate old injuries.

It was just that Hotch had so many of them.

_And that’s only his body. Then there are the mental and emotional wounds. That’s what’s hurting him now._

“‘S okay….Just let the memories come….Go with the flow, man…‘S okay…It’ll stop when it stops….Just let it go…”

Morgan kept the heating pad in place, one hand pressing it against Hotch’s midsection. He still didn’t know what had happened, but the fact that heat was being used to treat it and the slight, irregular, clenching movements discernible to his experienced fingers, told him it was a sure thing that the issue was muscular.

“‘S okay, Hotch….Don’t fight….Just let go…”

Head bent, eyes closed in patient sympathy, Morgan was oblivious to the bedroom door opening. A split second after he felt a draft of air from that direction, his hope that it was Rossi coming to check on his friend, was dashed.

“Daddy?”

_Ohhhh…CRAP!!…_

Hotch stiffened at the sound of Jack’s voice. Morgan felt a tremor shudder its way through the body in his embrace, knowing Hotch wasn’t ready to present any kind of acceptable face to the world…especially his small son.

“Daddy?”

The word was rife with uncertainty. Mr. Morgan almost never touched Daddy. They related to each other with a rough sort of male camaraderie that Jack studied with care. It was how men treated each other when they weren’t related. It had subtle undercurrents that said although they were friends, they were still competitive, but Daddy was the boss. What Jack saw now didn’t fit any of the molds of masculine interaction that he absorbed at every opportunity as he learned how to act like the kind of man Daddy was.

“Hey, Little Man…” Morgan did a creditable job of smiling, all the while thinking _He’s studying us. God in heaven…that’s what Hotch must’ve looked like. All wary and suspicious…hungry eyes. Kid’s got hungry eyes just like his Daddy_. “Your Daddy’s okay. He just got a…uh… _stitch_ in his side…You know how that is? How when you run really fast you get that stitch and it makes you just wanna double up and hold your breath ‘til it goes away?”

Jack nodded, watching…everything.

“Well…he got him a whopper.” Morgan pointed his chin at the electrical cords running from the heating pad, privately congratulating himself on using every available bit of evidence to bolster his case. “Keeping it warm’s helping, but I bet Dr. Palmer knows ways to make stitches go away _real_ fast that we don’t.”

Jack’s eyes traced the positioning of the heating pad, noting that Mr. Morgan was keeping it in place…not Daddy.

“Help us out, m’man. Go find Dr. Palmer and ask him what to do about stitches…Got it?”

Jack hesitated. He had a finely developed child’s talent for sensing undercurrents. It helped a lot when adults spoke about things he didn’t understand. It let him pick up on what situations _really_ were, rather than what grown-ups told him they were. It was part of why he worried too much for his age.

And something wasn’t right with what Mr. Morgan was saying. Still, if Daddy was hurting, then the best thing to do was get a doctor. And fast.

He turned, bolting, but Mr. Morgan’s voice stopped him before he could pick up speed.

“Be careful on the stairs, Jack. You don’t wanna fall. This isn’t bad, so it’s okay to take your time.”

Jack turned and marched down the stairs toward the room where Dr. Palmer and Poppi were scraping bits of glitter off of themselves and the furniture. Halfway down, he realized what bothered him. Mr. Morgan was right when he said stitches came when you ran.

But Daddy hadn’t been running. Jack was sure of it.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Well…I haven’t done anything like that since…what?...prehistoric times when I was a frat boy?” Marty sat before the fire, drinking the terms of the truce from a heavy, cut-glass tumbler. With his free hand, he was searching his thinning hair for small clumps of glitter held together by viscous drops of Elmer’s glue.

Rossi was similarly occupied.

“Did they _have_ frats back then?” His comment earned him a few blobs of congealed glitter flicked his way, falling short, plopping to the carpet where they winked in the firelight.

“Mind your manners when dealing with your elders.” The doctor gave up harvesting glitter globules, opting to put his feet up and give Rossi’s Scotch the attention it deserved. He gave a contented sigh. “Besides…a few more years and you’ll be verging on dinosaur-hood, too.”

Rossi shrugged, eyes roaming around the elegantly appointed room and ending on his own glass of liquid gold. “Getting older’s not so bad. _If_ you do it right, that is…”

“You mean if you make an unintentional and completely unexpected fortune.” Marty shook his head. “Never thought I’d be rubbing shoulders with one of those fat-cat, rich types…” His voice took on a slight bantering edge. “…or that fat-cat, rich guy’s fancy, girly-dog.”

Rossi snorted some Scotch.

“Okay. Addendum to the terms of the truce: stop maligning my dog. And for the record, Mudge enjoyed the attention… _not_ the ribbons.”

“Uh-huh….Sure. Probably out there now trying to figure out how to get them out of the trash…put them back on…how to paint his toenails to match that tail…” Marty shot a speculative glance toward the door, contemplating Mudgie’s hypothetical efforts to get in touch with his inner fancy-dog…and sat up, instantly alert. Rossi followed his friend’s eyes, twisting to see what had claimed his attention.

Little Jack wavered in the doorway, following Mr. Morgan’s directions, but knowing they didn’t really have anything to do with whatever was wrong with Daddy. Still, doctors were good people to have around…just in case.

“Hey, Jack…what’cha up to?”

The boy looked from one to the other. His hyper-sensitivity to his father’s moods told him Poppi was probably of more use in this situation, but…orders were orders.

“Mr. Morgan said to ask Dr. Palmer how to get rid of stitches.”

The older men exchanged looks.

Leaning toward the young intruder, Marty cleared his throat. “Well, usually you wait until the wound is healed enough to stay closed on its own. Then you use a small pair of scissors and…”

“Not that kind.” Jack shook his head, realizing his mistake. Grown-ups needed lots of detail or they were liable to go off track and end up on what Daddy called Wild Goose Chases. He’d never seen a Wild Goose, but Daddy said they were tricky, leading you places you didn’t want to go.

He tried again.

“The kind of stitches you get in your side.” He looked at the uncomprehending duo facing him. “Like when you run. That kind. Daddy’s got a _big_ one.”

In tandem, both men frowned, setting their glasses down and levering themselves to standing positions. Dr. Palmer headed for the door, but Poppi stopped him. “Hang on, Marty.” He bent, one hand resting on Jack’s shoulder. “Did Mr. Morgan say to hurry?”

“No. He just said to find out, ‘cause Daddy has a _big_ stitch. _Really_ big.”

Jack could see some sort of signal pass between the men. He’d been suspicious about things, but when Poppi said he’d go check on Daddy and left Dr. Palmer behind, Jack was sure this was all a White Thing. That’s what he called it. Daddy used terms like ‘Snow Job,’ or ‘Whitewash.’ Jack didn’t quite get what those meant, so he’d combined the visual images they made. And whatever was going on with Daddy upstairs was definitely a White Thing.

He sighed. When all the others had left and he had Daddy to himself tonight…maybe he’d figure it all out then.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“It’s okay, Hotch. He’s gone.”

Morgan could tell his friend was struggling, making a Herculean effort to get himself under control. It took a few minutes, but Hotch managed to sit up.

The pale, shocked look on his face was anything but reassuring. Morgan wished Jack hadn’t interrupted. Not to spare the boy so much as to allow the father to let whatever was running through him finish in its own time, at its own pace. Morgan suspected that having to truncate the process of memories surfacing, flooding, spilling over, would exact a physical toll from Hotch.

_Then maybe we’ll really need that doctor after all._

When he moved the hand holding the heating pad in place upward to rest against Hotch’s chest, Morgan felt a galloping heartbeat surging against his palm.

“Hotch…calm down. Get a grip, man. Calm down…”

Hotch’s voice was tight, strangled with effort and emotion. “Jack... I scared him, didn’t I…I did…I know it…” He shook his head, eyes fastened on the doorway where his son had watched while Daddy was lost somewhere. “God, I’m such a screw-up…”

Morgan’s jaw clenched. The heartbeat was slowing. He gave himself permission to speak his mind.

“The _hell_ you are, Hotch. If you were a screw-up, I would’ve canned your ass a long time ago. Instead, I’m draggin’ my own around tryin’ to dig up the pieces of whatever puzzle you came from.” He gave the Unit Chief a firm shake. “I don’t follow screw-ups. Better not insult me by saying I do…Got it?”

Hotch tore his eyes from the doorway to look at the earnest ones of the man he considered his second-in-command.

“Sorry.”

“Better be.” Morgan sighed, rubbing the shoulder he was still holding and would never release as long as its owner needed support. “Now…you wanna talk?”

To his surprise and relief, Hotch nodded.


	103. Mother Load

Wanting to speak and having the words to do so were two different things.

Long-dead memories were still coalescing in Hotch’s mind. He’d managed to stem the flow, but not completely. Tiny ‘a-ha!’ moments like sparks from a soldering iron showered down; sporadic reactions to the trickle of recall that continued to seep through.

He bowed his head, closing his eyes as he wondered exactly what it was he wanted to talk about. He was grateful for Morgan’s arm around his shoulders, aware of the large hand against his midriff, and of the care being taken to keep its touch comforting rather than controlling.

Hotch concentrated on clearing his mind, smoothing his thoughts so he could access them, communicate them without descending into panic. He continued to listen to Morgan’s verbal attempts to soothe.

“‘S alright, Hotch…Anything you wanna say, I’m here…Breathe…Keep calm…”

He wasn’t sure when the second voice chimed in, but he became aware that Rossi had joined them.

“Aaron, anything you want to talk about…I’m here…we’re both here…”

Hotch took a deep, shuddering breath and pulled himself erect. Sitting on the bed, he looked at his comrades. Morgan remained beside him, his hold firm and secure. Rossi had taken a chair directly in front of him, almost knee to knee.

Upon seeing his friend’s pallor, Rossi’s concern registered in his own stiffening spine and creasing brows. His eyes sought Morgan’s, finding instant understanding there.

“Yeah, I know.” Morgan nodded, returning his regard to Hotch. “I see it, too, Rossi. It’s like when Reid engineered that unintentional recreation of Foyet’s attack.”

Rossi nodded, recalling the weeks after Haley had been killed when Hotch had needed the whole team to pull him through the darkness that had swallowed him. There had come a point when he’d gone into what Morgan termed “some kind of shock.”

Rossi had been called in. During the course of an entire night, he and Morgan had sat up with their trembling friend as memories had once more assaulted him.

They’d occupied almost the same positions, except Rossi had been the one holding Aaron up while Morgan held down the chair. The similarity was unsettling to the two men. Hotch had mercifully been too stunned to do more than wade through whatever his troubled mind threw at him. He’d looked pale and dazed. Just as he did now. Rossi thought Aaron probably had no idea to what he and Morgan were referring.

Hotch took another steadying breath, focusing on Rossi.

“Where’s Jack?”

“Downstairs with Marty.”

Hotch licked dry lips. “Did I scare him? Is he okay?”

Rossi rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Jack’s fine, Aaron. Right now, I think you’re the one who needs a helping hand…or maybe an understanding ear. Jack’s fine.” He let a small grin escape. “Although, I do think you’ve got one smart kid on your hands. I’m pretty sure he knows _something’s_ fishy up here. All that talk about stitches.”

“Hey…it was the best I could do on the spur of a really awkward moment, Rossi,” Morgan protested. He still thought his subterfuge to get Hotch’s son out of the room, if not inspired, was at least adequate.

Rossi turned the focus back onto Aaron. “So…when Jack was up here, what did he see?”

“Hotch had a little meltdown.” Morgan jostled his friend; a gesture exhibiting affectionate acceptance for a moment of weakness. “It wasn’t too bad. But I wish the kid hadn’t interrupted. Would’ve been good if Hotch could’ve let all that stuff trapped inside him out once and for all.”

Rossi sighed, examining the subject of their discussion. “It doesn’t work that way. Not for him anyway.” He leaned forward, still studying Hotch, but speaking to Morgan. “Look, we both know what a twisted, sick bastard his father was. With trauma that lasted as long as his did, this kind of venting can manifest itself in waves. It’s ongoing. It’s…”

“Rossi.” Morgan overrode the older man. “It’s not his father this time.”

Rossi’s head swiveled away from its focus on Hotch. His brow furrowed. “Foyet?” He shrugged. “In its way, equally as traumatic and…”

“Rossi. It’s his mother.” When Dave blinked, but remained silent, Morgan continued. “I didn’t mean to, but I think I was the trigger. Told him every time I turn my back he’s getting banged up one way or another.” He tilted his head toward the heating pad. “ _Still_ don’t know what _that’s_ all about, but…yeah…I was kidding him about it. He said I sounded like his Mom and then…it hit. Hard.”

Hotch’s eyes were downcast. He was torn between disliking being talked about as though he weren’t present, and being grateful for not having to participate in this discussion. But he knew he’d have to at some point. Knew he _needed_ to.

He took a deep breath in preparation. A dry throat made him swallow several times under the watchful regard of his comrades.

“I, um…” He looked up, pivoting from one pair of eyes to the other, desperate to express himself, but unable to do so with the fine-tuned accuracy that was his normal style. Emotional stress had robbed him of his finesse.

Neither Morgan nor Rossi seemed to mind. Both leaned in with patience and compassion. And Hotch realized once again how lucky he was to have found such friendship; deep and tolerant; able to withstand all the quirks and damage lurking in his soul.

“I…all these images…they… _erupted_.” He felt his chest tightening; his breath uncomfortably shallow. “I mean…some of them, I knew…but…it just…everything… _connected_ …” He paused, pushing his shoulders back in an effort to loosen the anxiety that felt like a weight between his lungs.

The other two shared a glance. Rossi’s subtle nod toward Hotch’s chest told Morgan what the older man thought might help.

Feeling his own pang of concern, Morgan moved his hand up, resting it against the far pectoral muscle. It positioned his thumb over the center of Hotch’s chest; the place Morgan had made it a point to avoid ever since he’d found out it was the lingering result of one of the man’s childhood injuries at his father’s hands…or foot in this case. With the uncharacteristic lightness of a butterfly, Morgan’s thumb traced the place where nerves, muscle and bone had healed to unique effect.

Hotch realized what was happening. He welcomed the easing of tension, the release in his muscles that let him take a deep, cleansing breath. Morgan’s arm around his shoulders kept him from slumping. He half-closed his eyes, letting the gentle massage soothe his brittle nerves. After a moment, Morgan stopped, letting his hand remain still while its warmth continued to transmit a simple message of comfort.

This time when he spoke, Hotch’s voice was less strained, more the even baritone that was his norm.

“Guys, this is hard…” He glanced from one to the other, seeing nothing but sympathetic encouragement. Still, Hotch had to look down before continuing, keeping his hungry eyes to himself.

“I always had the memory of my mother avoiding me…kind of looking through me or past me. I thought she couldn’t stand me; that maybe I was the cause of the whole family falling apart in the first place.” He closed his eyes, taking another calming breath. Morgan exerted a fraction more pressure with his thumb, feeling tension in Hotch’s muscles drain once again.

“All of a sudden I could _see_ her.” He cast an anxious look at Rossi, his surrogate father. “I could see her face.” He bit his lip, feeling Morgan trying to keep him on an even keel. “My Dad beat her, too. I saw her face all bruised. And I remembered how one day she…just…changed.”

A single tear mapped its salty way down Hotch’s gaunt cheek. Rossi’s and Morgan’s eyes met, wanting, but helpless to share this burden.

“Now I remember. Her responses stopped making sense. She drifted around as though everything was just fine...normal. And when I’d…” Hotch’s breath caught; Morgan pulled him closer, pressing against his chest a little harder. “…I’d be all messed up…even crawling to get away…she didn’t see me anymore. She’d see some…vision, I guess…of what she wanted her life, our family, to be. I was just a really active kid who kept getting hurt through no one’s fault…She…drifted…floated through everything. It was eerie. It scared me as much as Dad did.

“I don’t remember her any other way…That’s the last impression I have of her.” He locked eyes with Rossi. “She never came back to being my real Mom, even after Dad was gone.” Hotch broke, looking at the floor with desperate intensity.

“My God…all these people have been saying how I was a ghost…how I haunted the town…” Hotch took a shuddering breath.

“My Mom was a ghost long before I was…long before…” 


	104. Sitting with the Past

Hotch had gone quiet.

Rossi and Morgan weren’t sure if he’d reached the end of his story, or if he was lost in thought…inspecting newly-resurrected memories. But some of his color had returned and Morgan felt he could let the man out of his hold. He pulled back, giving Hotch some breathing room, but keeping a wary eye on him.

Morgan recalled reliving his own unsavory memories concerning Carl Buford, the man who’d molested him beginning in his pre-adolescent years. He’d never told anyone, but after his last confrontation with Buford, he’d thrown up everything except those rancid memories. Morgan knew how terrible the impact of the past could be. Regardless of how distant.

He felt a frisson of pride when Hotch took a long, controlled breath and straightened his posture, raising his chin, clear-eyed, but grim.

“Sean.” Hotch said the one syllable with complete lack of expression.

Rossi frowned. “Your brother. What about him?”

Hotch gave his head a slow shake. “He never knew our ‘real’ Mom. Only the one who slipped away into a make-believe, Disneyfied version of the all-American family. I bet Sean doesn’t even know.” He gave Rossi a long look. “I bet that’s why Sean’s screwing up his whole life. He never learned self-discipline. Got away with everything. He couldn’t do anything wrong. If he did, Mom wouldn’t see it. She’d refuse to acknowledge it. No matter what he did, she needed to see the perfect, little son in a perfect, little world where husbands and fathers don’t beat or kick or turn their families into ghosts.” Hotch’s gaze went distant, looking over old ground with fresh perspective.

Rossi’s sigh was heartfelt. “Aaron, I’m a little more concerned with how _you’re_ coping…not your brother.”

Morgan nodded silent agreement. _Man’s asked after his son and his brother. Still can’t put himself first._

Hotch’s eyes scanned from side to side, surveying an inner landscape. “I’m okay…” Rossi and Morgan shot each other glances; they both hated the Unit Chief’s trademark mantra-of-denial. Both were relieved when he didn’t expand it to its characteristic repetition of three.

“I need…” Hotch hesitated; he wasn’t sure _what_ he needed…only that he felt a surprising vacancy inside. He shook his head, confused. A mind full of memories, newly-discovered causes, and effects didn’t seem like something that should produce an empty feeling. If anything, it was too much. He felt Morgan’s hand on his back again.

“Wha’d’you need, man?”

Hotch turned troubled eyes on his friend. “I don’t know. I just know I need…something.” He looked at Rossi in turn. “I don’t know. I feel…I don’t know…I just...” He licked his lips. “I don’t feel _right_ …I don’t know.”

“I think I do.” Rossi’s voice was tentative. “I think you need time, first of all. You can’t put all this together in a matter of minutes…no matter how much you want to seem solid and sure for our sakes.” His glance included Morgan. “You can’t unlearn the behavior of a lifetime in a matter of minutes either, Aaron. This is gonna sound contradictory, but I think some level of your psyche is panicking in a very rational, logical way.”

Both Morgan and Hotch looked lost. Rossi almost smiled. Almost.

“Your first response after what must have been a pretty deep, emotional sea change was to ask about others…Jack and Sean. I point it out and you dive for cover. Hiding like you always do.” Hotch looked on the verge of arguing a response, but Rossi forged ahead, denying him the opportunity. “You don’t even know you’re doing it, but now you’re trying to put Morgan and me first. Trying to sound and seem all fine and dandy and in control and communicative when inside you’re scared as hell. You’re trying to put the focus everywhere but on yourself.”

A panoply of emotions flickered across Hotch’s face.

“Aaron…you’re not empty inside. You’re scared of having to start from scratch in rebuilding your understanding of the first half of your life. Just stop. It _will_ sort itself out, Aaron.” Rossi leaned as far forward as he could, aiming his words at a stubborn man whose armor took the shape of concern for others. “Trust yourself, Aaron. You don’t need to struggle. Think of it as quicksand: calm down…don’t flounder…and you’ll find yourself floating instead of sinking.”

Rossi thought he could see desire to comply in Hotch’s expression, but skepticism, doubt, and that underlying fear weren’t far behind. Morgan stepped in, picking up the slack, bringing Rossi’s theories around to the practical side where action could be taken; something Morgan always preferred.

“Hotch, it’s too much to absorb. Hell… _I’m_ blown away by everything I found over the last couple of days and none of it’s even about me.” He gave his boss’ back an easy slap. “We’ve got other stuff to talk about, but it’s late. I’ve got a date with Garcia and some weird-ass flavored popcorn that sounds like it should be called Bag o’ Grease.” He stood up, letting his fingers linger on Hotch’s shoulder.

“You need to get out of your head, man. Go eat something. Watch some stupid T.V. reality show, or play with Jack. Take Rossi’s advice, okay? Don’t try so hard.”

Hotch gave an unconvincing nod. Morgan thought he understood. _He **can’t** get out of his own head when he’s here without work to do. The job’s something of a savior for him. Keeps him occupied. That’s why he overdoes it with the long hours._

Morgan’s sigh was full of sympathy. He patted his friend’s shoulder one more time. “Well…do your best, man. I’m just beginning to realize you’re one of those thousand-piece puzzles; not the hundred piece kind.” He gave a rueful grin meant to lighten the tense atmosphere. “We ain’t-a-gonna solve you tonight, Boss-man. Too much; too hard. It’s gonna take a while.”

Nodding at Rossi, Morgan headed for the door. He hesitated at the threshold, looking back. “You want me to send up that doctor?”

Hotch shook his head; a minute gesture that looked automatic more than considered. Still focused on Aaron, Rossi answered. “No. Just tell him we’ll be up here for a little bit. If he can get Jack ready for bed, that’d help.” He glanced toward the door. “Thanks, Derek. And goodnight.”

Morgan nodded. “See you guys tomorrow.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Once they were alone, Rossi reached out, shaking one of Hotch’s knees to claim his attention.

“Huh?” The Unit Chief snapped back to partial awareness. “Uh…yeah…goodnight…and thanks, Morgan.”

Rossi chuckled. “He’s already gone, Fuzz-Brain. Sounds like you are, too.” When Hotch failed to rally at the teasing name-calling, Rossi’s expression grew serious. He jostled the knee a little more forcefully.

“What is it, Aaron? If you’re not going to leave it alone, at least tell someone…me, preferably.”

Hotch’s eyes continued to look inward even as he replied. “She didn’t lie to me, Dave. Mom really thought I was in boarding school. She rewrote my whole childhood…maybe her whole marriage.”

Rossi nodded. “You can’t blame her for that. It was her escape mechanism. There wasn’t anyone to send her someplace for help. Dr. Swinburn rescued you, but he didn’t know about her. And apparently, delusional or not, she managed to raise Sean.”

Hotch nodded, still with a distracted air.

“So what else is bothering you, Aaron? C’mon; out with it.”

Dark eyes finally connected with Rossi’s. “What do you do when you find out your whole past wasn’t what you thought? That in a way it was all a lie you were telling yourself? That who you are, where you come from is based on lies?”

“Well…first, it wasn’t a lie. A ‘lie’ has negative connotations of deliberate deception. There’s nothing deliberate about you or your mother. You were both victims who coped as best you could.” Rossi took a deep breath. “Second, you look at the reality of the present. Who you are now is far more important than how you define the circumstances of the past.

“I have a feeling I’m going to have to repeat myself to you a lot, Aaron. So, once again, who you are is more important than where you came from. You can take your time and niggle and pick at your memories, but they won’t change who you’ve become unless you let them. You’ve always been a man who needs control. Maybe that’s part of why realizing your past was so blanketed in misconceptions…so _out_ of your control…bothers you.

“But the fact remains: you’re in control now. You decide what you’ll let affect you. You decide where you’ll go from here. You’re not a hurt, little kid anymore. You _do_ have control now. You have the freedom of choice. You can go exploring in your past…or you can get lost in it. Your choice. Your control. Your decision.”

Rossi leaned back, sighing. “It’s not as complicated as you think. And even though Morgan’s right to a certain extent about getting out of your own head for a while, don’t use that as a tactic to find another hiding place. I know it sounds contradictory, but don’t run from this…and don’t feel you have to sort it all out right this minute. Understand?”

Hotch nodded. He understood what he was being told. He just didn’t know how to strike that kind of balance. A little desperate bubble of panic began to form deep in his mind.

But from someplace even deeper, a pulse of warmth burst the bubble, dispersing its contents…at least for the present.  Hotch blinked, trying to trace where that optimistic, little impulse had come from.

But it was elusive.

As elusive, yet comforting, as the notes of a lullaby about horses sung by an old, black woman.


	105. Gang Behavior

Hotch was in the shower when his phone went off.

Rossi picked it up, debating whether to answer for his friend. When he saw the caller ID ‘Jack’s School,’ his stomach dropped and the question of propriety in picking up fell by the wayside.

_Jack’s first day back. **Please** , don’t let this be an emergency!_

He cleared his throat. “Aaron Hotchner’s phone.”

A female voice responded. Rossi was somewhat reassured by its calm tone. “Mr. Hotchner?”

“No, he’s unavailable right now.” An indecisive beat fell. Rossi thought the caller might be considering waiting until she could reach Jack’s father directly, but as the boy’s Poppi, he felt he had some rights here. “I’m David Rossi. I’m on the list of people authorized to act on Jack’s behalf. And you are…?”

He heard rapid keystrokes and assumed his claim to authorization was being checked.

“I’m Brenda Chang, principal of Ainsworth Academy for Gifted Students.” Some of the officiousness in her voice eased as she found Rossi’s name at the top of a list of approved contacts. “Mr. Rossi, will Mr. Hotchner be available any time soon?”

The shower switched off, but Rossi didn’t want to wait. If there was anything even remotely upsetting to deal with, he preferred to act as a buffer rather than let a man who’d just emerged from serious illness and emotional blows take the brunt of whatever the situation turned out to be.

“Is Jack alright?”

“Yes…yes, he’s fine, but…”

“What happened?” Rossi’s tone, reserved for unsubs, bureaucrats, and certain publishers commanded respect and demanded compliance.

“Well,…” A sigh announced the principal’s decision to divulge information regarding the Jack Hotchner Incident. “…Well, we’re concerned about Jack’s…uh…appearance…and I thought it would be good to touch bases with his father about it.”

Rossi had helped Jack dress that morning. Jeans and a blue, short-sleeved, polo shirt were perfectly appropriate school-wear in his opinion. “I don’t understand.”

Ms. Chang’s voice regained its authoritarian edge. “Ainsworth Academy has a zero tolerance policy for gangs, Mr. Rossi.”

“ _What_?!?” For a moment his mind flashed wildly on the possibility that Jack had found one of their weapons and taken it with him. It was as quickly dismissed. Jack was too smart to do something so ill-advised. And Marty had prepared Jack’s backpack with pencils, crayons, snacks and a note from Daddy that reminded his son how loved he was and promised that they’d spend after-school time together…a rare treat in the life of this FBI agent’s child.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ms. Chang. Please explain.”

“Jack has a tattoo, Mr. Rossi. A _tattoo_. At least, that’s what we have to assume it is, since he won’t let the school nurse get close enough to see if it’s just one of those horrible decals…which we _also_ frown upon.”

Rossi made an abortive attempt to interrupt, but the principal, having decided to confide the details of Jack’s case, wasn’t about to stop mid-way.

“He’s walking around with his sleeve rolled all the way up so it will show, and when the other children asked him about it, he said it was some kind of tribal insignia. Now, Jack’s father is an FBI agent. I don’t need to tell him that, first of all, it’s illegal for a minor to get a tattoo, and, second of all, he should know how this kind of behavior can spread and incite all sorts of trouble among a group of students…especially such young, _gifted_ ones whose imaginations and intellect are ready to embrace all manner of, well… _experimentation_. Now, Jack’s missed quite a few days of school. It would be a shame to have to send him home again,…or even consider expulsion.” Ms. Chang took a deep, patient breath, reminding herself of the value of dialogue versus diatribe. “…which is why I’d prefer to hear Mr. Hotchner’s side of the story before taking any action.”

Rossi quelled the impulse to laugh. Being expelled was no laughing matter. But the idea of little Jack Hotchner building his own classroom tribe of Raspberry Leopards pulled a chuckle out of him anyway.

“Ms. Chang…I’m so sorry…” The chuckle grew; an outright laugh, deep and resonant, won the day. Rossi could hear Hotch puttering about in the bathroom. He knew the Unit Chief shaved after showering, so he had a little more time to set things right. He mastered what the principal must consider extremely inappropriate humor. Taking a final deep breath, Rossi explained the genesis of Jack’s ‘tattoo.’

Among the team of profilers, Reid and Hotch had the most facile vocabularies, products of extended education coupled with exalted IQs. But Rossi was the one who used words in the literary world of storytelling. Now, he spun a tale of tragedy and love and a behind-the-scenes look at a special, little world where a single father’s heart, spilling over with love, had branded himself and his son with a mark meant to define their soul-deep bond. A symbol of comfort, not rebellion.

By the time he was finished, he could hear a sentimental sniffle from Brenda Chang’s side of the connection.

“Mr. Hotchner really did that? With red, indelible ink?”

“Hang on a minute.” Rossi felt a mischievous impulse ripple through him. He decided to give it free reign. “I can show you.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was shaving, leaning over the sink, damp towel flapping loosely from his waist, when the bathroom door opened without warning.

Before he could do more than dart startled eyes toward the intruder, Rossi had snapped a picture of Jack’s warm and steamy father, Raspberry Leopard spot fully exposed…along with a few other things.

It was hit-and-run.

Rossi and phone withdrew as quickly as they’d appeared. The door closed, leaving Hotch to blink, shake his baffled head, and resume de-whiskering. He supposed if it was important, he’d find out about it sooner or later.

He had too many other things on his mind at the moment to be concerned about another round of practical jokes in the devolving prank-world of Dave and Marty.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“So when’s Hotch coming back?”

Prentiss was fed up with consults and sitting behind a desk. She hadn’t minded when Morgan took off for a couple of days on some mysterious road trip on Hotch’s behalf. But now she was reaching her limit.

She had developed a callous on her middle finger from holding a pencil. That had never happened before. Not even when she was a student. She nibbled at the toughened skin, narrowing her eyes at J.J. who tended to bat at the agent when she chewed on her nails. She was thinking even a small scuffle with a friend over the debatable advisability of biting anything on one’s hands might be a welcome relief from the tedium of office work.

But J.J. saw the glint in her co-worker’s eye. She decided to ignore the manicure infraction this time. “Monday. Rossi said he’s chomping at the bit to get back, but Marty said he had to wait a full four days until after the rash was gone. So they figured Monday.”

Prentiss laid her head down on her desk, groaning. “It’s only Tuesday. If the rash is gone now, he should be up for some field work over the weekend… _if_ a case comes in.” She looked up, training one dark, hopeful eye on the press liaison…the mistress of paper trails. “I don’t suppose you could, you know, _make_ that happen? Maybe set something aside?”

“E-m-i-l-y…” Reid’s admonishment had just the right balance of sympathy and chastisement. “That would be unethical. Can you imagine how Hotch would react? And you know as soon as they let him out he’s gonna be all over this place, poking into every corner to see what he’s missed, and…”

“…and spraying his territory.” Prentiss enjoyed the slight widening of Reid’s eyes. If she couldn’t spice things up by provoking J.J., the next best thing was outraging Reid.

But he didn’t take the bait either, settling for mumbling something about ‘inappropriate metaphors’ and ‘reprehensible analogies’ as he bent to bury his nose in the files strewn across his desktop.

Unsatisfied, Prentiss looked for alternate prey. Garcia, perched on the edge of a desk, escaped consideration; she was too vulnerable to present a suitable target for the agent’s frustration. Dark, predatory eyes tracked further.

And that’s when Morgan’s expression and posture caught…and held…Emily’s attention.

“What’s up with you, Derek?”

Feet up on his desk, grin flashing like a beacon, Morgan was clearly in possession of some private knowledge, and enjoying dangling it before his fellow profiler, daring her to read him.

“Nothing.” It was an insolent drawl; a red cape brandished before Prentiss’ lowering horns and fiery glare.

“Spill it, Derek. You owe us. You’ve had time away. We’ve been chained to _these_ …” She shook a handful of file folders, evidence of the hell engulfing a team that thrived on fieldwork. “You _owe_ us…”

“Okay. Okay…I owe you.” Morgan lowered his feet to the floor. Straightening, he leaned forward; whether ready to gloat, or ready to run, wasn’t clear.

“Hotch _will_ be able to take cases by the weekend…but he won’t. Not for a couple days anyway.”

Prentiss’ eyes snapped with fire. “Why?! He’s gotta be going crazy, too. How’s Rossi gonna keep him down, if he wants to get out? Huh? Derek?”

Morgan stood up, stretching feigned kinks out of his back, and putting himself one step further from Prentiss…one step closer to the exit.

“He _is_ getting out. Hotch and I are goin’ on a road trip. We’ll be back by Monday.”

Morgan bolted for the door, but he needn’t have bothered. Prentiss was taking her frustration out on the callous insulting her field operative’s hand…a hand meant to hold a firearm, not a writing utensil. She tore at it with sharp teeth, eyes daring anyone to stop her.

But her anger drained, replaced by smug satisfaction when Reid scooped up the lion’s share of files from both their desks. Depositing them on top of Morgan’s in-box the young genius shot her a grin.

“Morgan said it himself: he owes us.”

Feeling better just being able to see the surface of her desk again, Prentiss mirrored Reid’s grin. “I think he also owes us a long lunch.”

“I think you’re right.”

As Reid and the distaff half of the team headed out to find a restaurant worthy of a three-hour lunch, the leaning tower of drudgery topping Morgan’s inbox, toppled, sliding across the agent’s desk, burying it almost completely.


	106. Setting Examples

Rossi closed the connection and placed Hotch’s phone back on the nightstand.

He allowed a slow grin to spread across his face. Hotch would need to have a talk with Jack about displaying his leopard spot, but he was fairly certain the boy wouldn’t be expelled…or even disciplined much.

Dave adopted what he hoped was a bland, if not inscrutable, expression as the bathroom door opened.

“What was that all about?” Hotch was still wearing the towel, now cinched around his waist in a manner that did much more to cover his lower body than when Rossi had intruded on him. He cast a suspicious look at the older man as he rifled through his go-bag, extracting boxers, socks and t-shirt.

Rossi shrugged. “Nothing important.”

“Uh-huh.” Hotch gave his friend a sidelong look. After a moment of indecision, he took his underwear back to the bathroom to dress in private.

Just in case.

He closed the door with a decisive click.

Just in case.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Brenda Chang, principal of Ainsworth Academy for Gifted Students, sat behind her desk, blinking at her computer screen.

The image of a disheveled, damp, decidedly naked man glowed in the center of the monitor. The towel did very little to conceal Mr. Hotchner’s body. But just enough to keep the depiction from descending into the realm of porn. Oddly, she found the surprised innocence in the man’s eyes the most engaging part of the photo.

Mr. Rossi had been charming, and earnest, and clearly concerned that she understand the recent difficulties afflicting the tiny Hotchner family. He had almost convinced her to overlook young Jack’s ersatz ‘tattoo’ with the touching story of what it meant to father and son. She’d been on the verge, ready to let it go. But when Mr. Rossi had insisted on providing proof that he was _not_ feeding her some sentimental fantasy, but was reporting incontestable fact, she’d been curious what would constitute such proof.

When the picture had arrived on her screen, Ms. Chang had been speechless. Mr. Rossi had apologized, saying the nature of his work in law enforcement had desensitized him to certain niceties when it came to gathering evidence; he hoped she understood. After extracting assurances from her stunned lips that Jack would not suffer any ill consequences for loving his father and needing a visible symbol of their bond, Mr. Rossi had promised to let Mr. Hotchner know what had happened.  Jack’s father would have a talk with him explaining that he could keep his leopard spot as long as he didn’t flaunt it…kept it under wraps…concealed…covered…

The same could not be said of Mr. Hotchner’s natural attributes.

But there was no flaunting.

Everything was unintentional…unplanned…unpremeditated…uncovered…unblemished…ummmm….

Ms. Chang snapped back from her inadvertent reverie, telling herself she was examining the photo to glean evidence, to verify the story she’d been told about little Jack and his father and the matching Raspberry Leopard Spots.

And it definitely _wasn’t_ pornographic.

So there could be no objection to her holding on to it…keeping it tucked away in a file.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Well, Dave, I think the children are gonna be alright.”

Marty was enjoying what he thought might be his last day in Rossi’s spacious mansion. “The company’s been enjoyable. The work minimal, except for that one bout with the fever.” His brows rose as he sipped from his coffee cup. “ _That_ was a doozy. Glad we didn’t have to hospitalize the boy.”

“Me, too.” Rossi leaned on the kitchen counter, shaking his head as he reviewed the last couple of weeks. “Still, he’s got a lot of work to do on himself…don’t’cha think?”

The doctor’s eyes crinkled with wry humor. “Who hasn’t?” He sighed. “But you accomplished what you set out to do. You got him to hold still long enough, and you got him when his defenses were down. Now, it’s up to Aaron where he goes from here.”

“Well…Morgan’s taking him on a sort of personal odyssey this weekend. I think he’s had enough of my company for a while. But…”

“What?”

Rossi’s eyes were trained inward, weighing the steps in Hotch’s emotional journey. “I just don’t know if he’s been hurt more than he’s been helped.” He looked up at his old friend. “I had no idea how much he’d been through.”

Marty shrugged. “Neither did he.” He scratched his jaw. “It sounds as though he was empty inside; carrying around a lot of blank spaces that were hurting him. At least now, if he’s hurting, it’s from something real. Before, he had nothing to work with. Now, he has a reality that he can examine for what it’s worth….I don’t know him as well as you do, but I’d bet he’d rather deal with reality than supposition any day.”

Rossi nodded. “He would.”

“Well, then…” The doctor leaned back in his chair, looking satisfied. “All’s well that ends well.”

“But that’s just it, Marty: it hasn’t ended.”

“Ahhhh, my friend…most stories never do. Not the interesting ones, anyway.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch and Jack sat cross-legged on the bed, facing each other.

“So you need to keep your sleeves rolled down while you’re at school, Buddy. Understand?”

“Y-e-a-h…”

Hotch wasn’t sure he did. Not really. He thought Jack was just being reluctantly agreeable and, at least for the moment, willing to accept the conditions imposed upon leopard spot display by forces he couldn’t hope to fight and emerge victorious.

Hotch chewed on his lip, studying his son. It was times like this that he felt the full impact of the ‘single’ part of being a single parent.

So much of what other people could access as firsthand knowledge was denied him. He’d never had parental examples worth following. And until recently he hadn’t been able to recall huge chunks of his formative years. So when Jack needed explanations and examples of his own, Hotch felt as though he was groping about in a vacuum.

_And this is so important. I **have** to get this right. I don’t want my Buddy to grow up with a big blank where there should be a strong parent._

Hotch took a deep breath and tried again.

“Schools don’t like gangs, Buddy. Gangs usually have things that mark them as being all part of the same group…like wearing certain colors, or the same kind of t-shirt, or tattoos. So schools don’t like tattoos. They don’t like people forming that kind of group.”

Jack’s small face puckered. “But Raspberry Leopards aren’t a gang. We’re a tribe.”

Hotch felt that curious, little pulse of warmth that had been popping up lately. He’d felt like an outsider all his life. It was nice to have a tribe; to be _wanted_ as part of a tribe. Even if it was just two people.

_But I have to make him understand._

“Gangs are different. They usually do mean things and break laws. That’s not what we’re about, Buddy.”

“I know that.” Jack gave a sigh. Sometimes it was hard to make Daddy understand. It was hard to make him hear past all the worry he carried around. But this was important. This was Tribe business. And Daddy was making things so much more difficult than they needed to be.

Words. They were the problem. Daddy always tried to find the exact right ones and got all tied up and strangled in them. He didn’t understand that Jack could feel what he wanted to say just by looking at him. Daddy’s face and Daddy’s eyes were all he needed.

So Jack cut to the chase, because Dr. Palmer said that Daddy still had a slight fever and needed just a little more taking care of.

“I promise I won’t show anyone my spot at school anymore.” He scooted close to Daddy’s side. Leaning over, Jack put his arms as far around his favorite person in the world as they would go, squeezing him tight.

Because that was the language Daddy understood best.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan gritted his teeth as he worked his way through another consult file.

He couldn’t blame Garcia; she was exempt from this kind of paper-hell. J.J.’s job let her off the hook for the most part, too. But Reid and Prentiss…they were a different matter.

He was keenly aware that in Hotch and Rossi’s absence, he was in command, even if they weren’t in the field. But seeing his desk buried beneath cascading files while the others had disappeared for hours had him thinking vengeful thoughts.

And quelling most of them.

He had to set an example.

So Morgan had taken a sizeable stack of the dreaded paperwork and was being dutiful, slogging his way through it.

The rest he had divided in half, bundled into two large packages, brightly ribboned and bowed, thanks to supplies he’d discovered in Garcia’s lair…

…and messengered over to Reid’s and Prentiss’ apartments.


	107. Crossing Lines

Hands bracketing Hotch’s shoulders, Marty held him in place. He tipped his own head back, giving his patient a discerning look through narrowed eyes.

“Now, you boys take it easy. Don’t overdo.” He turned to address Morgan. “Make sure he gets regular meals and rest. This is likely gonna be tough on him, so I’m making you the Deputy Doctor, Mr. Morgan.” He gave Hotch a gentle shake before releasing him. “Do as you’re told, Aaron. Let your friend be there for you…Got it?”

Hotch nodded. He felt fine. He didn’t see what the big deal was. All they were going to do was retrace Morgan’s steps. An overnight trip. No biggie.

He refused to admit, even to himself, that his stomach was already sending out distress signals.

_But it’s nothing. We’re just gonna make a few, brief visits. I’ll be back at work in a couple days…back in my office… **my** turf. Mine._

Hotch swallowed, trying to mask the faint nausea rippling through him.

_It’s just because they made me eat so much for breakfast. That’s all. I’ll be back at work on Monday…back in my office…where I can have coffee for breakfast and no one will bust my chops about it…_

“Thanks, Marty. I owe you. And thanks for keeping me out of the hospital…and for taking care of Jack, too. Thanks for…everything.”

“You can thank me by remembering some of what we talked about, young Aaron.” The doctor gave him a mock-severe glare. “Stop trying to be perfect. And be nice to yourself. Give yourself time.” He reached out, tapping a finger in the center of Hotch’s chest, knowing his longest, physical scar was located just there. “Remember: old wounds will fade. Even the ones inside. And while you’re waiting for that to happen, for time to pass…do some things that’ll make you smile. You might even let yourself laugh once in a while.”

Marty turned, giving Morgan an appraising look. “I have a feeling you’ve got some scars of your own, Mr. Morgan. Look out for each other.”

Morgan nodded, unsure of how he felt about having his own hurts read by a virtual stranger. “I’ll take care of him, Doc. Don’t worry.”

Rossi masked his own concern for this journey that would stir up Hotch’s past in a very immediate, very inescapable way. He smiled, scanning the sky. “It’s a beautiful day for a drive. Don’t worry about Jack, Aaron. If anything comes up, Jessica’s back from her trip, so I’ll have back-up, if I need it. But, I don’t think I will. Between Marty and me, the boy’ll be fine.”

He stepped closer, giving Hotch a brief hug. “Both of you be safe. And if you need more than a couple days, just let me know….

“Now, get out of here.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Reid wasn’t surprised when his phone rang and the caller ID said ‘Prentiss.’

He’d been expecting it. _Dreading_ it…but expecting it. And secretly, in a tiny, rebellious part of his brain… _looking_ _forward_ to it…

Emily dove in without preamble. “We’re not gonna let him get away with this, Reid. We can’t. If we do, it’ll set a precedent that we’ll regret for the rest of our careers…for the rest of our _lives_. ‘Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but _soon_ …’”

Reid grinned at her use of dialogue from the script for ‘Casablanca,’ one of his mother’s favorite movies. Prentiss sometimes engaged in dramatics when she wanted to convince you to follow her into questionable territory. When Reid responded his voice was subdued, but with an undeniable quiver of anticipation running through it. “I know.”

“So are you with me, Reid? Huh?”

“Yeah…yeah, Emily. I’m with you.”

Her delivery was picking up speed, echoing her zeal to get started. “He’s gone. On the road with Hotch…wherever-the-hell those two are going. So we have plenty of time. Did you get the stuff?”

“I got it. I got everything we’ll need.” Reid couldn’t help sounding a little breathless himself. Prentiss had a way of infecting others with her rebel spirit. He had no doubt her pre-college school years had included plenty of detention time. And then, just as now, she’d probably lassoed a number of her peers into sharing her fate; otherwise innocent people who’d been swept up in Prentiss’ deliciously mischievous turbulence.

“So I’ll meet you there in…about twenty minutes?”

“Sure, sure. You’ll get us in?” Reid had the agile fingers of a magician, but his education in the rougher arts of lock-picking, hot-wiring and such was sadly lacking.

Prentiss’ response was a derisive snort. “If I can’t get us in the building _and_ his apartment in less than four minutes, I’ll turn in my badge.” She vaulted past the trivial matter of illegal access to a more important detail. “You’re still okay for taking Clooney for the night?”

“Absolutely. But it’s not really necessary. They make paint that doesn’t give off fumes, Emily. That’s the kind I got.”

“Yeah, but we don’t want him rubbing up against anything wet and getting his fur all gummed up.”

“I’ll take him for the night. Everything’ll be dry by tomorrow.”

“Good…good…” Reid could practically hear the gears of mayhem clicking across the connection. “And you got the right colors?”

“Magenta…Sunset Autumn…and Avocado…God, Emily, it’s gonna look like the inside of a Haight-Ashbury flophouse from the 70s…” Reid felt a frisson of remorse for his friend’s home. “Are you sure about this?”

“Reid, so help me God, if you chicken out on me now…”

“No! Absolutely not! But when Morgan sees it…”

“…he’ll _loathe_ it….Almost as much as I loathe paperwork….See you in twenty minutes?”

“Twenty minutes. See ya.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Gimme the keys.” Hotch extended his hand, and met one of Morgan’s smug looks; the kind he saved for occasions when he could get away with defying or annoying his boss…two activities in which the agent took a great deal of delight.

“Nope. I’m driving.”

Hotch resorted to one of his finest glares.

Morgan shook his head. “No way, man. You heard the doc.” Secure in the knowledge that he could point to official, medical instructions to sanction his insubordination, Morgan headed for the SUV driver’s side. “You’re gonna put the seat back, close your eyes, and get a few extra hours of rest, Boss-man. We’ll find something soothing on the radio, if that’ll help.” His grin was a little too wide.

Petty arguments weren’t Hotch’s style. He wasn’t that guy. So he gave a small, discontented sigh, and, deciding to pick his battles on this all-alpha-males road trip, slipped into the passenger seat.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The sign was weathered, leaning; every aspect of its appearance a testament to lack of civic pride. Peeling paint partially obscured the words: ‘Welcome to Bluefields, for a day or a lifetime.’

Morgan had been enjoying himself, needling Hotch with gentle jibes when it became apparent that the Unit Chief wasn’t going to spend the drive to his hometown napping. But now…now Morgan pulled to the side of the deserted road and watched his friend with concern. He reached a hand across the seat, rubbing the back of one shoulder as Hotch leaned slightly forward, staring with large, haunted eyes at the sign that marked Bluefields’ city limits.

“Hotch…man…we don’t have to do this. This trip is for you. If you’re not ready, I’ll turn around and we can forget this place even exists.” Morgan reached a little farther, kneading the tense muscles at the base of the man’s neck.

Hotch swallowed. The nausea had been building at a slow, even pace during the entire drive. For a moment, he didn’t trust himself to speak. _But if I don’t face this, I’ll never be free of it._

“Hotch? We can go home. We can forget this God-forsaken town even exists.”

His breath hitched, but he found his voice.

“No, Morgan. I _did_ forget this place for a long time. I can’t do it again.” The words rumbled with intensity.

“Okay…okay…Just remember I’m here. Like the doc said, Hotch…let me help. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

Hotch’s nod was curt; his breathing shallow.

Keeping Hotch in his peripheral vision, Morgan pulled back onto the pavement.

Together, they entered Bluefields.

 


	108. Ghost-Child

Morgan drove slowly, stealing glances at his traveling companion and hoping he was giving him enough time to acclimate to Bluefields before they encountered anyone or anything of consequence.

Hotch was looking at…everything…craning his neck around, silently taking it all in. Every once in a while, he’d pull himself up straighter, as though trying to see something of special significance. When Morgan turned down a street a few blocks from the old Hotchner family house, Hotch stiffened.

“Morgan, where are we going?” His voice held a note of urgency; both needing and dreading the answer.

“Calm down, man.” Morgan tried to drive at an even slower pace. They were coasting; his foot hovering over, but not in contact with, the gas pedal. “Here’s how it’s going down, Hotch. If I have anything to say about it, you’re gonna leave this town with a _good_ feeling. You’re gonna take something _nice_ out with you.”

Morgan could tell by Hotch’s expression that he considered Bluefields and the terms ‘good’ and ‘nice’ mutually exclusive. Nonetheless, Morgan continued laying out his battle plan.

“I’m taking you to your old house, Hotch. It didn’t look like anyone was living in it last time, so if you wanna go in and scream bloody murder, or tear the place apart, or just sit and think for a while…it’ll be okay.”

There was no response other than Hotch’s intense stare.

“After that, we’ll go anywhere you want, but the last place we’ll visit is the police station. I want you to see Miss Billingsley…Ada…face to face, ‘cause she’s gonna give you the ‘something good’ that you take out of here. She’s gonna overwrite some of those bad memories. I hope so, anyway.”

For a moment it looked as though Hotch might protest…maybe renege on the whole odyssey and demand to go back to Quantico. Morgan could feel the dark gaze boring into him from the passenger side. The junior agent lowered his head, an unconscious prelude to self-defense. After a moment, Hotch spoke; his words delivered in an unexpectedly soft tone.

“Why are you doing this, Morgan?”

It wasn’t what Derek had expected. He blinked, abandoning his defensive posture. “Huh?”

“You’re not just my ride. You’ve mapped out a battle plan. You’re directing this whole thing. Why?”

“Hotch, I…” Morgan’s voice faded. His brow furrowed. It was a good question; a profiler’s question. It deserved a thoughtful, honest answer; not one of his usual, quick, off-the-cuff, deflective rejoinders. He applied the brake and brought the SUV to a full stop. Turning toward Hotch, he confronted the darkness deep within his friend’s eyes.

“‘Cause I know what it’s like.”  

Morgan looked forward, gripping the wheel, scanning the street of this dying town. “In a lot of ways, comparing what we’ve each gone through is like apples and oranges. There’re a lot of differences. But…” He took a breath, gathering his words and hoping they reflected his intentions well enough to reach that guarded, bruised place inside Hotch. “…but I know what it’s like when you move _past_ that…that… _door_ …that’s closing off what you don’t want to face.

“It’s scary as hell to open it and look inside…and take that first step through. But once you do, you can’t stop. You keep moving deeper.” Morgan turned concerned eyes back on his boss. Sitting straight and pale, the Unit Chief was attentive to every word.

“Hotch, I know what it’s like to get past it all…to escape. It’s…it’s…” Morgan shook his head, floundering in feelings he was unaccustomed to admitting. Finally, he expelled a frustrated sigh. “Ahhh, hell, Hotch…all I can tell you is it’s worth it.”

After a few beats of mutual silence, Morgan’s eyes brightened, lighting on an acceptable analogy.

“It’s like when we’re after an unsub, a child-killer. And we’re closing in on him and we think there’s no hope for this last victim, so we psych ourselves for the worst….And then…you hear her…and you’re scared to believe it…and you run harder and faster, ‘cause you’re her only hope…and your whole world pulls in on itself…all you know is the sound of her…all you can think is ‘still alive,’ ‘still alive’…and you’re draining every last bit of strength and speed you’ve got for her…and then…then… you see her…and she isn’t all torn to pieces…she’s _fine_ …and you know he didn’t do anything to her.

“She’s the one in a million who got away…and you know she’s gonna be a happy, little kid again…and…well…you know…Hotch, you _know_ how that feels…you _know_ …”

Morgan saw the shimmer in Hotch’s eyes, felt the warmth in his own, and was sure the Unit Chief knew exactly what he meant.

“I know you’re strong, man. I know we can turn back and you can go on the way you always have. And you’ll be a great dad and do your job better than anyone else. And you’ll never let anyone down…except yourself.” Morgan took a deep breath, letting it ease the tangle of emotions in his own heart.

“But I want that feeling for you, Hotch. I want you to have that moment when we find the kid we thought was lost…and the kid’s okay…” Morgan locked eyes with his friend. “…and _you’re_ okay.”

He sat back, gazing at the dusty, cracked pavement once again. “I don’t know how else to describe it, Hotch. That’s the best I can do. It’s like finding that kid…only this time, you’re both parts of it: you’re the one racing to save the kid… and the kid’s you.”

Both men stared straight ahead at the road before them. Hotch’s eyes were darting. His stomach hurt. Part of it was sheer emotional tension, but he knew the rest of it was being confronted with the truth in a way that made it palpable to him.

He hated the cases where children were involved. They all did. But those were the ones that struck at Hotch’s core; every unsaved victim stealing a piece of him.

He swallowed hard.

“Okay, Morgan. I’ll try to save the kid.” He took a deep breath, expelling it slowly.

“Take me…home.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

It had only been a short time since he was last there, but the Hotchner house seemed dingier than Morgan recalled.

Sad. Dilapidated. Fine architectural bones with the flesh falling off. A corpse of a house. He parked on the street, reluctant to pull into what had once been a spacious driveway. He didn’t want to bring Hotch onto the property. The man needed to enter of his own volition.

Morgan studied Hotch.

Hotch studied his childhood home.

_No…not ‘home.’ Never ‘home.’ Just a house…a building. ‘Home’ is someplace warm and welcoming. This never was._

Grim and expressionless, Hotch unbuckled his seatbelt. He opened the SUV door and hesitated, staring at the ground. An image of Neil Armstrong flashed across his mind’s eye.

 _One small step…_ and a world had changed…shifted infinitesimally. _Cut it out, Hotchner. MOVE!_

He slid out of the seat, feeling slightly surreal. A few, determined strides took him partway across what had once been lush lawn. Now, brown stubble crunched underfoot. Hotch stopped, surveying the structure before him through narrowing eyes.

_Just a building. No one home._

But he knew that wasn’t true. The house was chock full of ghosts. The town had turned a blind eye when adolescent Aaron had gone wraith-like. Now he knew the same had been true for his mother.

_Maybe, if there **are** such things as ghosts, I’ll feel them. Especially here. Because I was one._

His eyes flicked toward Morgan, standing a step behind and to the side. A stalwart presence. Watching. Guarding. His gaze returned to the structure before him.

“Hotch? You okay?”

No answer. Morgan could picture what Rossi would do in this situation. He stepped closer, putting a tentative arm around his friend’s shoulders; squeezing…exerting just enough pressure to signal supportive reassurance.

“I’m here, man. You’re not alone.”

Hotch nodded. Moving out of Morgan’s embrace, he walked to the front door, head high, back straight. But Morgan could see the rapid respiration; knew each step was costly.

Cupping his hands around his eyes, Hotch peered into one of the tall windows flanking the door, trying to see past the grime and dust. Morgan had been right. No one had lived here for some time.

He tried the doorknob without success.

“I can get’cha in, Hotch.” Morgan moved up, putting his shoulder to the door, testing its solidity.

“No. Don’t.” Hotch told himself he didn’t want access to this house to be readily available to anyone passing by; didn’t want Morgan to break down the door and leave a gaping entry for just anyone to use. But deep inside, where he kept his secrets, Hotch knew it was the other way around. He didn’t want whatever was inside to be able to get out. He didn’t want the ghosts flying free.

“You don’t wanna go in?” Morgan was ready to do whatever the Unit Chief wanted; get him wherever he needed to be.

Hotch shook his head. “Don’t wanna…but will.” He glanced up, recalling all his childhood tricks-of-the-trade. “Let’s go around back. There are other ways in.”

Nodding, Morgan followed his leader, noting the tension in the man’s shoulders.

At the back of the house, away from the street, Hotch moved without hesitation to a cellar window flush with the ground. He knelt, running practiced fingers around the edges.

“This is how I used to get out when…” He felt his breath hitch in his chest, but pushed past the suffocating sensation. “…when I needed to, and other ways weren’t an option.”

The glass pane came loose, revealing an opening approximately six inches high. Morgan stared.

“You fit through there? Jeez, Hotch…you were one skinny kid.”

“Yeah, well…I was seven.”

“Well, you can’t get in there now, man.”

Hotch nodded, biting his lip. It was a strange feeling to have his newly-recovered memories leading him. Finding evidence that supported them, like this child’s escape route, gave him a strange, disjointed sense. He stood, scanning the expanse of windowed siding that comprised the rear of the building.

“I wasn’t tall enough to try the higher ones…but…” He began testing each window within reach; fingers longer and stronger than those of the child he’d been.

But it was Morgan who found the weak spot, prizing an entire frame from the wall, creating an opening that, although snug, would grant entry for slender Hotch.

“I’ll get in and then come ‘round and open the door for you.”

Morgan gave his friend a boost, hearing him thud onto the floor within.

“You okay? Hotch?”

“Yeah…” The voice sounded small, distracted.

“Well, I’ll be at the back door, waiting.”

There was no response. Hotch had found his ghosts.

Morgan waited a very long time.


	109. View From the Crossroads

Hotch stood up, brushing off the seat of his jeans as he peered around the dim interior.

Only a few feet away, Morgan’s voice sounded muffled, more distant than he’d expected.

“You okay? Hotch?”

“Yeah…”

But Morgan could have said a brontosaurus was eating the SUV and Hotch’s answer would have been the same. The past was pulling him in. He felt the ghosts calling to him….He was the only living person who could see them, hear them anymore.

Hotch registered Morgan’s voice saying something about a door, but it was vague. He didn’t feel compelled to reply. The air surrounding him was pressing against his lungs, making only the shallowest of breaths possible. His stomach lurched.

_Stop it, Hotchner. This isn’t **his** house anymore. For that matter, it’s not your house either. You’re breaking and entering, so get on with it before you make Morgan an accomplice to your crime._

He was in a back hallway that ran the length of the building. It was primarily meant for servants and deliveries, but it had also been a place where a little, dark-haired boy had taken refuge. It was removed enough from the main living areas so no one would hear a child crying, or telling himself he was okay…okay…okay…. But it wasn’t perfect; there were no hiding places. If someone was determined to find the little, dark-haired boy, and they happened back here, they’d see him. And he’d be caught. And he’d be hit. And…

…and Hotch became aware that he was gasping; harsh noises that sounded like blind, animal panic; reminiscent of someone scared and hopeless and… _like the little kid Morgan was talking about. The one you don’t think will make it…._

Hotch closed his eyes, but opened them immediately. He wasn’t sure why it had been so uncomfortable. Maybe it was because he thought something might approach while he wasn’t looking; or maybe cutting off visual contact, proof of the present, made the past all too real…let it close in and stifle him.

He swallowed and forced himself to walk. And not just to some aimless, random location. Hotch wanted to be at the center of the house; the place where the most entrances and exits could be seen…felt. He wanted to stand at the interior crossroads where, if ghosts were moving, they’d be bound to pass.

With slow, measured steps, he went through the kitchen, hallways, dens, miscellaneous rooms with no particular purpose that every antebellum mansion seemed to spawn at will. Everything looked so much smaller than he remembered. He reached the main staircase leading off the front foyer. From here, he could see a dozen different doorways leading to living rooms, an atrium, a music room, parlors…and up on the landing, more doors gave way to bedrooms, studies, and sitting rooms.

Hotch swayed for a moment, knowing he’d reached his battleground.

He sat down on a step halfway up to the second floor…something that would have been unthinkable when he was growing up; it was such a central, visible, _vulnerable_ location. Leaning forward, he pressed a fist into the space between the halves of his ribcage, trying to release the tension there that was making it hard to breathe. He closed his eyes and forced himself to keep them shut.

Far away he could hear the faint noise of knocking…pounding…

He shut himself off, and with that preternatural instinct that he used on the job, that could sometimes tell him if he was on the right trail, following the right clues, he searched for the kid Morgan said needed saving.

_It’s Aaron. I’ve come back. I’m here. If anyone else is…come get me._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Reid pulled his car up to the curb adjacent to Morgan’s apartment building.

He glanced around, but didn’t see Prentiss anywhere. Craning his neck out the driver’s side window, he scanned the street for her car; a small part of him hoping she wouldn’t show.

_Maybe this is like school: if no one shows up in twenty minutes, I can go home._

The sharp rap of knuckles on the rear window shot Reid out of his seat, bumping his head against the roof and making the seat belt dig into him, snapping him back in place. Mood descending into something sullen, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror framing Prentiss.

Her smile and mirth-crinkled eyes poured forth mischievous energy. It was hard to resist. Reid gave up trying.

“C’mon, Reid!” She banged on the trunk, bouncing with barely suppressed excitement. “C’ _mon_!”

Shaking his head, he slipped out of his seatbelt, rubbing where it had punished his midriff thanks to Prentiss’ surprise appearance. Reid looked up at the dignified façade of the old brownstone building harboring Morgan’s home. It would be a shame to deface part of something so time-honored, so solidly respectable.

But then he remembered going to _his_ home to find a gaily-wrapped package waiting. Festive bows and curls adorning neon-bright, shiny paper. Such a happy-looking thing at the end of a trying day. Until he opened it. Until the files…more than he’d been assigned, he was sure…spilled out.

Reid shot a sly glance Emily’s way. “Let’s do this.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan walked toward the door at the rear of the old Hotchner house.

He didn’t hurry, imagining Hotch would take his own, sweet time on his way to open it. A few minutes, at least. No more than that. Less than ten, surely.

He leaned against the jamb, surveying the backyard with its wealth of weeds.

_This might have been a great place to grow up. But now? Now it’s a dead shell in a dying town. Maybe that’s best. Too many bad things happened here._

Thinking of all he’d learned about his boss over the last couple of weeks, Morgan sighed. He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed.

_Maybe he thought I meant the front door._

With only a small frisson of concern, Morgan trotted all the way around the house to the massive door beneath the columned portico. It was as solidly shut as when Hotch had tried it. Imitating the Unit Chief’s earlier actions, Morgan cupped his hands and peered through first one, then the other of the door’s flanking windows. Squinting, he thought he could see one of Hotch’s legs from the knee down, on the barely-discernible staircase across the spacious foyer. The glass was too warped and grimy on the inside for him to be sure.

Keeping as much of an eye as possible on the jeaned and tennis-shoed leg, he reached one arm out and rapped on the door.

“Hotch! Hey! Hotch!”

He pounded on the door in earnest, but the leg/foot combo didn’t move.

“Damn it!” Respectful of Hotch’s earlier wish _not_ to break the door down, Morgan ran once again to the back of the house. The opening Hotch had used to gain access to the interior was too small to accommodate the breadth of Morgan’s shoulders.

Burning with frustration and visions of his boss having fallen or somehow been incapacitated, Derek retraced his steps to the rear door. Giving it an experimental bump with his shoulder, he was pleased to find it much less solid than it’s street-facing counterpart. It also had a dead tone to it that made him think it might be suffering from dry rot on the inside. He backed off to give himself a few steps of momentum.

On the third bruise-worthy attack, the door surrendered. It had never been meant to withstand such violent persistence. A small section splintered under repeated impact.

Morgan tore and kicked, widening the break enough to reach the knob from the inside. He was in and running, cursing the labyrinthine layout as unexpected halls and doors kept interfering with his sense of direction.

Finally, what must have been intended as an unobtrusive servant’s entrance opened onto a room from which he could see a portion of staircase. Breathing hard, Morgan charged into an area he recognized as the one he’d seen from the front of the house.

Hotch was seated on the stairs, bent over, elbows braced on his knees, eyes closed.

“H-o-t-c-h?”

Still panting from exertion, Morgan made a cautious way up to his friend’s level, taking note of the fact that he was breathing in shallow, but regular, rhythm.

_Not unconscious. In some kind of trance maybe?_

“Hey, Hotch?” He leaned down, trying to see into  the still, unmoving face. The expression was that of someone intently focused on a purely private, inner landscape.

Morgan blinked. _What would Rossi do?_

With gentle care, repeating Hotch’s name over and over again, he took hold of both shoulders, pushing him upright.

 

xxxxxxx

 

_I’m here…come get me…_

From the moment he’d entered, Hotch had felt a heaviness in the air. It had pressed on him, making it hard to breathe. Now, with his eyes closed, squeezed shut against any distraction; with his innate, undefined sensitivity, he quested outward, letting memories encapsulated within the walls of this place take him.

The adult part of his mind kept him from bolting. It stood like a sentinel, watching, ready to step in if things went too far.

But another part of him, newly-remembered felt…everything. Verified…everything. Judged…everyone.

Hotch heard the echoes of violence…his father’s attempts to mask it from passersby with music and television at peak volumes. Once again he knew force that left his flesh blackened with bruises. Bones snapped. He smelled his own blood. Fear tasted like iron in the back of his throat.

He sat on the stairs, soaking in every memory the house offered. One side of him screaming under the waves of sensation; the other appraising participants as well as circumstances.

Hotch knew when he’d reached his limit.

It was when he heard himself admitting that he loved his father. Equal parts of hate and love pulled at his adolescent soul. The two most powerful, most divisive forces of the human heart vied for his sanity.

Teenage Aaron wasn’t strong enough. He did the only thing he could: he ran and hid. It was the survival skill he knew best.

Before he’d run to external places…laundry rooms and the arms of an old, black woman…when the threat had been physical. But emotional danger was different. So much harder to elude. He dove for cover within himself, becoming what the town called a ghost, a wraith.

Hotch remembered.

And when the physical sensation became too real, when he felt his father’s hands on his shoulders, claiming him, controlling him…it was time to come back.

When he did and the hands were still on him, inescapable, there was again the iron taste of fear. Powerful arms encircled him. Hotch tensed, ready to fight once more for his life, terrified that he’d been too receptive to the house…that the past had taken him…that he’d have to relive it all again…

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Hotch! Hotch! C’mon, man…it’s me…it’s Morgan. Calm down! I’ve got you…calm down…calm down…c’mon…calm…calm…”

When Hotch stopped struggling, awareness returning to his eyes, he didn’t pull away. He surprised Morgan by leaning in closer, letting the powerful arms tighten around him.

In this house of hungry ghosts, it was the only safe place he could find.


	110. Co-Existing Opposites

After a moment, feeling Hotch try to straighten, Morgan eased his hold.

Both were still struggling to regain normal breathing rhythm; Morgan from physical exertion, Hotch from the emotions attendant on his tryst with the ghosts of Hotchners past.

Their eyes met for a moment, but Hotch broke away. Intending to lean back against the step behind him, he was surprised to feel Morgan’s arm still steady at his back, still offering support. He moved away from it; reluctant to impose himself as any more of a burden. But bending forward he encountered Morgan’s other hand, pushing him back.

“Go ahead and lean, man. It’s okay. Like I said…I gotcha.”

After a moment of reflexive resistance, Hotch complied, sighing and closing his eyes once again. Morgan waited a few beats before speaking.

“What happened to you?”

Hotch shook his head. “I’m not sure. But…this place feels…different…”

Morgan stifled a mirthless chuckle. “Of course it’s ‘different,’ Hotch. You grew up, but _this_ …” He glanced around at the faded, peeling wallpaper and warped floorboards. “…this didn’t grow. It died.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Hotch tried to push himself erect. Feeling Morgan’s hand pressing him back again, taking a position in the center of his chest, he thought he knew the intent. “No…I don’t need that…” He gripped Morgan’s wrist, pulling it away from the spot where a touch could slow his breathing, relax his muscles. “I’m okay. Really.”

“You sure? You look a little, well, _drained_ , man.”

Hotch sat up, taking a long, lingering look at his surroundings. “I’m okay.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “What feels different is…well…maybe it’s just me. It’s not so…dense…in here. I almost couldn’t breathe the air, it was so heavy. But now…” Testing his perception of a changed atmosphere, he took a cleansing breath. “And for a moment there, it felt like I was kind of split in two. Watching…and living it all again.”

He glanced at Morgan, seeing concern etched in every line of his face.

“Hotch, what you went through…a lot of kids _do_ split in two. They dissociate. You didn’t. That takes a lot of strength.”

Hotch’s lips quirked in more of a grimace than a smile. “Don’t kid yourself, Morgan. I just went a different way. I didn’t know it at the time, but now I’m pretty sure I even know the trigger.”

Morgan’s tone was equal portions sarcasm and sympathy. “Gee, ya think years of physical and emotional abuse had anything to do with it?”

“Sure it did, but there was one thing that pushed me over the edge.” Hotch’s voice faded; feeling faint echoes of confusion and conflict attendant on the moment he’d first realized he’d loved the monster trying to destroy him.

Morgan frowned, studying the faraway look on his friend’s face. He had his own gifted insight that helped him navigate the dicey paths of the human mind. Something clicked. His words grew soft, tentative.

“Hotch, does this have anything to do with that secret you told Dr. Swinburn a long time ago?”

The Unit Chief froze. His voice was a low rumble when he responded. “What do you know about that?” Dark eyes focused on Morgan with unsettling intensity.

To his credit, Derek recognized that, although Hotch may have come to terms with whatever he’d revealed to Swinburn, he wasn’t necessarily ready to let others in on it. It was private property. And Morgan had the uneasy feeling that he might have trespassed. He needed to explain that no trust had been breached. It was just a profiler’s…and a friend’s…instincts at work.

“I _don’t_ know, Hotch. I was there when Swinburn asked you to verify your identity by telling him something only you could know. I heard him mention a secret. I heard him ask… I didn’t hear you answer. But…” His voice lowered, becoming more confidential despite their obvious, undeniable seclusion in the old Hotchner homestead. “…but I figured since he was the one who got you out of this rattrap…and since you’re not the type to ask for help…well…whatever you told Swinburn would be the…uh… _heart_ of the matter.” Morgan ducked his head for a moment. “Besides…the way he acted…the tone of his voice once he was sure it was you…he was someone who _really_ wanted to take care of you. Even now.”

Throughout this small speech Morgan had been growing increasingly uncomfortable under Hotch’s unwavering, predatory stare. Not that he felt threatened; rather he had the gut-deep sense that he was on the right track. But he didn’t want to push too hard...was leery of sending Hotch back to that place where his shields were up, thinking if he masked his pain, if no one could see it…maybe it didn’t really exist after all.

_It’s like being told to ignore a bully and he’ll stop picking on you. Doesn’t always work out that way. And I want Hotch to face the bully while I’m here to back him up._

“I don’t know your secret, man…but I think that’s the knife in your wound. And it won’t heal unless you pull it out.”

The Unit Chief’s voice was low and even; too expressionless to be anything but the result of fierce effort in the face of extreme emotion. “Rossi knows. Did you talk to him?”

“Yeah, but he didn’t say anything about it.” Morgan shook his head. “Hotch, as much as we’re both involved with you and your past, we’re not telling each other much. Rossi gave me what I needed to know to hunt down Felicia and research what kind of care you might have received as a kid. We’re not gossiping about you.”

It was Hotch’s turn to look down. “I know. And I appreciate both of you more than I can say. This stuff’s just hard. That’s all.”

Morgan rubbed one of his friend’s shoulders with a compassionate hand. “I know. I’ve got my own ghosts…remember?” A wry half-smile appeared. “ _Different_ ghosts, but still…ugly, mean ones.”

He let Hotch mull over whatever was still keeping his eyes averted for a few minutes before continuing.

“I know it’s hard, man. How could it be anything but? B-u-t…that whole intervention we put you through…we kinda hoped that’d make it easier for you.”

Hotch finally looked up, eyes connecting with his friend’s. “Easier.”

“Yeah. To open up and let us…I dunno…help you wade through it all…or learn to lean on us.” Morgan sighed, still giving Hotch’s shoulder absent-minded squeezes. “Once we leave, I don’t think you’ll ever be coming back here. Do everything you need to do; say everything you need to say. But get free of this place, Hotch. Don’t let it have you anymore.”

One more deep sigh. One more time, scanning the length and breadth of the crossroads at which he sat and…

“I loved my father, Morgan. I wanted to please him. I wanted him to be proud of me.” Hotch’s voice was so low, Derek had to strain to hear him. Even inches away, it required concentration. “And I hated him with every fiber of my being, with every breath I took. And I wanted him to love me back.”

Morgan waited until he was sure there were no more words coming. He leaned against the stair at his own back, shoulder to shoulder, mirroring Hotch’s position.

“So you know love and hate can exist side by side. And tear you apart.” He took a deep breath.

“And…knowing that…Hotch, it’s possible your father _did_ love you. And hated you. And it tore him apart, too.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Anyplace else you wanna go?”

Morgan had watched Hotch absorb the possibility that he’d been loved as well as hated. He wasn’t sure how the man would process it, but he’d felt it needed to be said…to be considered. Mostly, he was pleased that Hotch had opened up. As secrets went, Morgan didn’t think it was anything that merited shame or guilt.

_But as much as I want to be there for him, I can’t see it from Hotch’s viewpoint. No one can unless they’ve traveled his journey right along with him._

So, a secret it would remain at Hotch’s discretion.

The two men had given the door Morgan had broken regretful looks, but neither proposed fixing it. The property had been abandoned. More importantly, Hotch no longer felt the weighty darkness inside whose escape he’d wanted to prevent.

It was just a house.

Now they were on the cracked sidewalk next to the SUV, ready to take their leave once and for all of this part of the past. Hotch stood, taking a last look at the house, making sure he was ready to move on. But when Morgan asked, his head turned to look down the street. Wordless, he set off at a brisk pace, eyes fixed on his destination: a house farther down and across from his own.

Morgan followed, noting the building that seemed to be drawing Hotch looked occupied. It was still in a sorry state, but less so than those that were clearly deserted. Hotch stopped at the sagging gate of a weathered picket fence, eyes intent, scanning the yard to the side and rear of the main structure.

His expression was disappointed, even mournful.

“It’s gone. It’s not there anymore.”

Morgan caught up to his boss, resuming his unobtrusive position a step behind. “What’s gone? What’re you looking for?”

Hotch’s eyes flicked toward where his friend stood, still not used to sharing his past and his pain, still having to make a conscious effort. “The laundry. They had a little outbuilding where they did laundry…where Felicia…” His voice trailed off.

Morgan didn’t press for more. This part he knew.

After a moment, Hotch turned back, plodding with slow, thoughtful deliberation toward the SUV. “That’s it, Morgan. I don’t need to see anything more. I’m done here.”

Morgan could feel an irrepressible grin begin. “Good. Then I’m taking you to the Bluefields Police Station.” The grin stretched its widest as they reached their ride. “Hotch, I think you’re gonna like this.”

Morgan was sure Ada…Miss Billingsley…would be there. She seemed to be the one holding down the fort in lieu of a proper, disciplined police force.

But secretly, Morgan’s real hope was that Randy Crenshaw, Police Chief and schoolyard bully, would be lazing behind his desk when Aaron Hotchner, tall and imposing and successful…entered.


	111. Worth a Thousand Words---Times Three

Ada Billingsley was having a bad day.

She’d finally gotten around to purchasing some new magazines to fill the long, pointless hours endured in her position as receptionist for the Bluefields Police Department…and she’d forgotten them at home. As usual, the junior deputies fled the scene when she turned her thunderous scowl on them, demanding to know what they were doing with their worthless, ignorant lives besides swilling cans of beer and taking potshots at the resulting empties… _And **missing**! Can’t even do that right!_

Ada had dragged out the ancient issue of ‘Better Homes and Gardens’ once again, turning the curled pages as she glowered about her indiscriminately, telling herself it was long past time to retire…and knowing she wouldn’t. Miss Ada held on to the shredded hope that someday one of her barbs would hit its target so dead center, it would spur a useless clod of human clay to mold itself into something better.

So far, it was a vain hope. But the ex-schoolteacher believed in everyday miracles. Her faith had been sorely tried, but hearing of little Aaron Hotchner, who against all odds not only survived, but thrived, put her back on the scent of the failures who surrounded her. She would never give up prodding them as long as she had pointed words and a sharp tongue at her disposal. Because deep down, Miss Billingsley loved all her students. Little Aaron had occupied a special place in her heart. His dark, liquid eyes had pleaded for love and warmth. These others needed a swift kick. They would never realize Miss Ada’s devotion. And Miss Ada would never give up.

But today she fumed in silence. The deputies had run away. And Police Chief Randy Crenshaw had absented himself as well…taking refuge in one of the back rooms of the station where he could scratch himself and think about all the people and circumstances that had conspired to keep him in his hometown; a factor he was sure had crippled what would otherwise have been an illustrious career.

He idled away the time poking through files. Most were for traffic infractions. One or two dealt with mischief spawned by teenage rebellion and boredom. Randy yawned, embroidering the bare facts with all sorts of imaginary trappings; all of which culminated in acts of quiet heroism by the Bluefields Police Chief. In these scenarios he always had thicker hair, a thinner waist, and was at least three inches taller.

Through it all, he listened for the phone to ring. If Miss Ada was occupied performing her receptionist duties, chances were good he’d be able to run by her, escaping before she could skewer him with a poisonous comment. But so far, it had been a very quiet morning.

Randy gave a gusty sigh, redolent of last night’s dinner of barbeque flavored potato chips and onion dip…and went back to daydreaming about being the hero of his hometown.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan pulled the SUV to a stop before the Bluefields PD.

Hotch was peering up at the building, knowing it had been one of Felicia’s last stops before she’d been required to leave her home. Reaching for the door handle, he was ready to step out when Morgan stopped him.

“Hang on, Hotch. Couple things to go over before we go in.”

The Unit Chief halted mid-move, giving his colleague an inquisitive look. Morgan twisted around, pulling his go-bag from the backseat. Rummaging through it, he retrieved three small packages, brightly wrapped with the same finery plundered from Garcia’s lair that he’d earlier used to disguise bundles of paperwork delivered to Reid and Prentiss.

“What’re those?” Hotch raised his brows, the profusion of ribbons bringing up vagrant visions of Mudgie’s misadventures.

“Presents for your old teacher, Miss Ada.” Holding the gifts with care, Morgan turned toward his boss with a glint in his eye. “When we go in, let me go first. Hang just outside ‘til I get you, okay?”

“Okay.” Hotch wasn’t in the mood for pranks or jokes, but Morgan had gone to a lot of trouble on his behalf and had been a steady, stalwart friend throughout. And he seemed so certain that this encounter would be beneficial that the Unit Chief felt objecting to whatever he had planned would be ungrateful. “Anything else?”

“Yeah.” Morgan scanned the shabby street as though checking for something or someone. He leaned in closer. “Do you remember a kid named Randy Crenshaw when you were growing up?”

Hotch frowned, testing his recently augmented memories. Morgan saw the moment when the synapses connected…recollection dawned.

Hotch gave a weak nod. “Yeah. Why?”

“He’s the Police Chief. And a prime, first class, grade-A jerk.”

One side of Hotch’s lips quirked upward in joyless agreement. “Yup. That’d be him. But…Police Chief?” He shook his head; a reaction to the sly vagaries of fate. “That’s…hard to imagine.”

“Well, I just want you to be prepared if he’s in there.” Morgan was having a difficult time repressing borderline evil glee bubbling just beneath his surface. Hotch couldn’t help but notice.

“Morgan…I get the feeling there’s a lot of subtext that I’m not getting.”

Derek picked up on the note of anxiety creeping into the Unit Chief’s voice. He decided full disclosure was the kindest path to take with a man who had already had his emotions scraped raw by the visit to his childhood home.

“Hotch, the guy’s a loser. The kind that wants others to corroborate his outlook so he can feel better about himself.” His grin flashed white. “And he…is…so… _jealous_ …of you.”

Morgan was touched by the look in his friend’s eyes. He knew Hotch wasn’t petty; didn’t hold grudges. But something in his expression made Morgan glad they were having this discussion. It was more than giving some sad, wannabe his comeuppance for past cruelty. It was a demonstration of a sort of twisted justice resulting from Hotch’s trials and tribulations.

It was what Morgan had hoped would happen. Hotch’s past was in the process of being overwritten. Derek saw a small spark of satisfaction burning in the depths of his boss’ eyes.

_It’s working. He’s gonna leave here with a good feeling. His ghosts are dying. Atta boy, Hotch…_

 

xxxxxxx

 

When the front door creaked open, Miss Ada’s spine straightened with an almost audible snap. She’d been hoping one of the deputies would come skulking back. She was feeling shrewish and bored. She turned her laser stare on the poor unfortunate who dared cross her path today.

Initial disappointment that this wasn’t someone she could give a good tongue-lashing evaporated when she recognized the visitor.

“Mr. Morgan!” Ada relaxed back into her chair, grateful for anything that might alleviate the tedium. But she still wanted to vent a little of her mood. She narrowed her eyes at the grinning FBI agent standing before her.

“What do you want? Don’t tell me you’re back here because you like the place, young man. I thought you were alright when you left here last time. If a place like Bluefields draws you, I’ll be inclined to reassess my opinion and lump you in with the rest of the human offal that loiters around here…” She leaned, eyes and raised voice directed toward the back of the station in a clear attempt to be heard. “… _especially_ the kind that wastes their time hiding from an honest day’s work!”

Before Morgan could respond, she brought her attention back to him. “And I have a bone to pick with you, Mr. Government Agent. You said you’d send me a picture of Aaron Hotchner.” Ada raised her nose with a contemptuous sniff. She’d noticed the wrapped presents in Morgan’s hand, but she enjoyed railing at the young man whose smile remained intact and beautiful, letting her know he didn’t mind an old lady letting off some steam.

“I thought you were a man of your word…a man fit to be in the employ of our great country.” She gave another eloquent sniff. “Disappointing, Mr. Morgan… _very_ disappointing…”

Derek recognized his cue. “G’day, Miss Ada.” He stepped forward, extending the cheerful-looking gifts, and reminding himself that she hated being ‘Ma’am-ed.’

“I didn’t forget, Ma’a…Miss Ada. And I’m sorry to be so late about getting these to you.” Morgan ducked his head in a respectful gesture. “Please accept my apologies.”

“Welllll….” Her eyes fastened on the three, small packages; two rectangular, one oval-shaped. “If these are what I hope they are, then I’ll look on you a little more kindly.”

With the care of a woman who hadn’t received many presents in her life, she slipped a fingernail beneath a tab of tape, releasing the paper, sliding out what it had covered.

“Ohhhh…” She breathed a happy sigh. The fond look on her face made Morgan eager for her to continue, knowing the final gift that was waiting outside. “Ohhh…yes…that’s him.”

After another moment admiring it, she set the frame containing the photo taken for Hotch’s badge…the one Garcia had found when searching for one with a smile…on her desk where it faced the interior of the entire station; where it would be highly visible to the rest of the Bluefields police force.

“I’ll keep that one here. Thank you, Mr. Morgan. It’s perfect.” Miss Ada swallowed, turning to the next package, opening it with equal care. This one revealed a tall, lanky Hotch holding his son. His expression was serious, but revealed a perfect portrait of the depth of the love within his father’s heart. It had been taken at a company picnic. The ex-teacher nodded, running worn fingers over the surface.

“Yes. I always knew if Aaron became a father, he’d be a good one.” She leaned to the side, opening a lower desk drawer and pulling an oversized purse from it. She slipped the second, framed photo into it. “I’ll keep that one at home.”

Moving on to the third and last package, Ada couldn’t help her contented sigh and small, uncharacteristic smile. But she looked puzzled when she unwrapped an ornate, oval frame…empty. As her brows rose, Morgan took a step backwards to the door.

“That one’s for a picture I haven’t taken yet, Miss Ada.” Eyes fixed on the old receptionist, he crooked his fingers in a ‘come here’ signal to someone outside.

The door creaked open on its rusty hinges.

Miss Ada stared.

Morgan watched the transformation on her face. He’d never imagined it could be so…radiant. She dropped the frame and came out from behind her desk.

A deep, baritone rumble. “Hi, Miss BeeBee…”

Morgan stepped away, camera at the ready.

The picture he took showed an old woman who was anything but frail, embracing a tall, slim man in an iron grip.

Derek never told anyone that he saw the same depthless love as was evident in the photo of Hotch and Jack. The eternal kind of love that united families, enabled miracles, and was healing the bruised soul of a small, unwanted boy.

Still hugging her Aaron close, Ada turned at the sound of the picture being taken. Her smile beamed.

“ _This_ one, Mr. Morgan… _this_ one I’ll keep in my heart.”


	112. Face to Face

Police Chief Randy strained his ears from the backroom that served as refuge from life, work, and particularly Miss Ada.

He couldn’t pick up specific words, but voices were audible. He could discern Ada’s and those of two different men…both of the men’s were low and unsettlingly alpha-sounding. Dropping to his hands and knees, he inched forward, peeking around the doorjamb in hopes of discovering who the visitors were and why the receptionist’s tone had turned so joyous.

From the sound of all three, this was definitely _not_ business. More like…like…like a _reunion_ of some kind. _Yeah…that’s what it sounds like…a **reunion**._

Keeping low, where he believed no one would expect to see anyone and would, therefore, overlook the momentary appearance of a face, Randy squinted toward the front of the office. His stomach dropped as he recognized Morgan. After his last encounter with the FBI agent, it had taken a lot of beer and bragging to regain his self-esteem and to refurbish his self-justifications…the reasons he invented and clung to and nourished about why he was here, lording it over the apathetic citizenry of a dying town.

And who would Morgan bring with him? Randy’s brain, dulled by lack of challenge, numbed by the nice, safe monotony that characterized his days, took a moment to solve the equation. A man who was connected to Morgan and who had the power to make his irascible receptionist bubble and fizz with happiness… _Oh, God…no…no…NO! That **can’t** be him!_

Randy pulled back, sitting on the floor, spine pressed against the wall, wavering between anger and disbelief. It would be just like the quirky fate that had consigned him to his lackluster life to bless that loser Haystack Hotchner with… _everything_! The Police Chief hadn’t dared peek longer, but the impression he’d taken away from that one glimpse was that Haystack had grown impossibly tall. Who would have expected a scrawny, little runt who barely kept body and soul together to do that?! But the same dark hair and the man’s somewhat slight build were the final nails in Randy’s coffin.

It was Aaron Hotchner. FBI agent. The man Morgan looked to as his boss. The man Morgan also said was his friend.

Insupportable. Unfair.

Randy regained his feet, pushing himself up the wall. The only good thing was that he hadn’t been out front when the agents had arrived. He could stay here, hidden, until they left. There was a back door, but he’d have to traverse the main room in plain view to access it. He wiped sweat from his upper lip; the result of his unaccustomed exercise crawling about. He stayed pressed against the wall, listening…hating the deep rumble of the voice he knew was Haystack’s. It had been a weak, starved, little squeak in his memory. Whether that was true or something he’d invented over the years didn’t matter. It was being subsumed, overwritten by the resonant version he wished he could block out even as he continued to eavesdrop.

_They’ll be gone soon. Nothing to keep them here. It’ll be alright. Just stay back here ‘til they’re gone._

Police Chief Randy Crenshaw strained to hear, tasting the bitterness that flavored his whole existence.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Miss Ada was having a wonderful time crushing Hotch.

She felt reborn, reaffirmed, re- _everything_! She knew she’d had a part in the boy’s survival. Seeing the final product, this tall… _gentleman_ …there was no other word for him; seeing the beautiful outcome of so much struggle and painful injustice, Miss Ada felt proprietary pride. If nothing else had come of her career as a teacher, this was enough.

She felt young again. Re-validated, reenergized…re- _everything_!

And determined to hang on to little-big Aaron for just a while longer.

After the initial shock, she’d extended her hug to make sure she wasn’t dreaming; that this flesh and bone being was real. But after a few minutes, she decided there was entirely too little flesh padding the bones she could feel moving with every breath the man managed to win despite his ex-teacher’s strangling hugs.

When she eventually released him, she stood back, peering up at the smile that seemed foreign.

_How sad that I can’t remember ever seeing that little boy smile. And it’s a nice smile. It should shine out often._

Morgan stood back, grin stretched to painful width. He’d taken several snapshots of the teacher-student reunion. Now he was letting himself enjoy the spectacle of his boss being mauled by this tiny, old lady…whose strength belied her age, judging by Hotch’s wince when she compressed  his ribs within her embrace. When she stood back and gazed up at the object of her affection, Morgan shook his head at the power of human emotion. It had transformed Miss Ada. _And Hotch, too. He hasn’t looked this happy in a long time…no, not just happy… **lighter** somehow._

Morgan gave himself a mental pat on the back for pushing his boss to take this trip into the past; to tie up loose ends and leave his footprint as a man on the town where he’d occupied a lesser place than most. And to take away an altered vision of himself. Morgan had wanted Hotch to be confronted with irrefutable proof that he hadn’t been as solitary, as negligible, as he’d felt.

Miss Ada was doing a fine job of getting that point across.

Out of the corner of his eye, trained to notice details, honed to professional acuity, Morgan saw the blob of a pasty face for the briefest moment. His grin grew even wider as he realized it must be the Police Chief.

_And to be down there, he has to be on his hands and knees._

The image added another dimension to Morgan’s contempt for the man, and gave additional depth to his chuckle. He didn’t care if Crenshaw made an appearance. He’d seen Hotch; must know who he was, and was spineless enough to crawl and hide, rather than walk out and be in command of his own turf. Morgan dismissed the man from his thoughts as Miss Ada finally found her voice.

She couldn’t stop patting and caressing Hotch, as though still needing to assure herself of the corporeal presence of this phantom from years gone by.

“Ohhhh…Oh, my dear goodness…Little Aaron…my sweet, little Aaron…Well, you grew up just fine, didn’t you…I’ve thought about you every, single day…” She pulled him around so light filtering in through the front windows fell on him. “Let me take a better look at you.”

Hotch smiled down at her, uncomfortable with being the center of attention, but too kind to extract himself from her grip. “I’m good, Miss Bee…” He hesitated over the name he’d called her as a child. It seemed babyish on the lips of an adult, but it was how he knew her. It was a special connection between them. Once again, his old teacher stepped in to rescue him.

“Land sakes, Aaron, call me Ada. You’re all grown up, and you turned out beautiful…although…” She stepped back, scanning his length, still holding on to his arms, making small clucking noises all the while. “…although I dare say you still don’t eat well, do you?” Ada turned reproachful eyes on Morgan. “Last time you were here you said he was ailing, Mr. Morgan. Is he still a might peaked from that?”

Morgan took pleasure in humoring Miss Ada, knowing Hotch shrank from being subjected to such personal examination. He pretended to consider his boss, stepping around him, tilting his head to view the man from a variety of angles. At long last, under the Unit Chief’s smoldering glare, Morgan rubbed his jaw, frowning, and shook his head. “No, Miss Ada, that’s about what he usually looks like.” Shrugging, he gave a deep, regretful sigh. “Not much we can do about it, I’m afraid.”

“Nonsense!” She was suddenly all business; a force to be reckoned with…and obeyed. “I’m taking you boys home with me for lunch. No arguing!” Her voice rang with authority. The two men had exchanged looks, on the verge of making polite excuses about having to be on their way.

In truth, Morgan wanted to give Hotch a little more time, a last opportunity, if he needed to roam the streets of Bluefields. And then he’d hoped to cover a few miles, maybe stopping at Tazewell to touch bases with Dr. Swinburn. But the snap in Miss Ada’s voice was final, would brook no argument. And Morgan could imagine her bringing a class of unruly children to attention with no more effort than it took to speak the words.

Part of Ada’s power was her rock-solid belief that she _would_ be obeyed. Giving Aaron one final pat, she went to retrieve her purse, chattering all the while.

“You know, I was over at the market just yesterday. Picked up a whole chicken…way more than I could ever eat before it spoiled…didn’t know why at the time, but now…” She flashed a bright smile at the two agents. “…now I guess I knew I’d have company. Lord, it’s been a month of Sundays since I’ve sat down with houseguests. _RANDY_! _RANDY GET OUT HERE_!”

The sudden change in tone from confidential cordiality to reprimanding order made Hotch and Morgan blink and straighten their posture. They shot each other glances, knowing who was being summoned. The initial frisson of concern that Aaron felt died away before the smirk he saw growing on Morgan’s face. Derek wished he could tell his boss that the bully of his past had been crawling on hands and knees moments before; too cowardly to face the errors of his own past.

“ _RANDY_! _PULL YOUR PANTS UP AND GET OUT HERE_!”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Sweating in the back, hugging the wall as he tried to pick up on the conversation between his receptionist and the boy he’d once scorned, it was decision time for Police Chief Randy Crenshaw.

The debate raging within him was swift and fierce. He could stay where he was, claiming to be too immersed in reading old files to have heard his name called. But it was a weak option at best. Ada would never let him live it down. She’d manage to reveal his cowardice by some sharp retort in the presence of his cronies. And the amount of damage control he’d have to do to salvage his reputation among his deputies and drinking buddies would be…insurmountable.

Randy toyed with the idea of storming across the bullpen, making for the back door and shouting something about an emergency requiring police intervention. But that was feeble, too. Miss Ada was the point of contact. She’d know no call had come in. Even the FBI agents would be onto that ploy. Being law enforcement professionals, they’d know it was subterfuge.

Which left one alternative.

Go out and face all three. Pretend the way his receptionist addressed him was a product of quirky familiarity, rather than contempt. And swagger up to Aaron Hotchner with the image of skinny, little Haystack at the forefront of his mind.

Ignore Morgan. See only Haystack.

Randy pulled his paunch in as far as it would go. Hooking his thumbs in his belt and wishing he hadn’t left his holster and gun in his desk drawer, he sauntered out of hiding.

 

xxxxxxx

 

In the lobby at the front of the police headquarters, Morgan took a step closer to Hotch, placing himself slightly behind his boss. It was a show of support and respect that he knew wouldn’t be lost on the Police Chief.

Miss Ada didn’t seem to have any idea of the tension she was creating by calling Randy out. She was making sure her picture of Hotch and Jack was secure in her purse, rattling on about the meal she was looking forward to preparing. When Randy appeared, she gave him no more than a glance.

“Randy! I’m leaving for lunch. Won’t be back for a while since it’s a special occasion. You’ll have to handle things yourself out here, so no slipping away, understand?” Miss Ada gave her hair a pat. “Land sakes, I must look a sight. You boys wait here. I’m going to powder my nose. Won’t be but a minute.” Shooting the Police Chief a stern look, Ada retreated through a door off to one side of the lobby, leaving the men alone.

“Well, well, well, well, well…” Randy pulled up short before Hotch, realizing if he got too close, the height difference between them would be too clearly in Aaron’s favor. Tipping his head back, he regarded Hotch through slitted eyes. “Well, well…I’ll be. If this isn’t a blast from the past. How’s it goin’, Haystack? You just disappeared one day. Never thought you’d show up again.”

Randy’s smile made Morgan’s fists clench. But he remained silent. This was Hotch’s battle. And another opportunity to overwrite the past.

“Skinny, little Haystack Hotchner. My, my. Wait’ll I tell everyone. They’ll never believe it.” Randy subjected the agent to his most insolent look, surveying him slowly from head to feet and back. But midway, he faltered. The look in Haystack’s eyes was predatory, dark, and completely immune. There was no answering reaction. No bristling. No hostility. No…nothing. Only a natural, immutable quality that said this man was capable…of many things. Of inspiring respect. Of handling authority and responsibility. Of command. Of everything necessary to be a man.

Hotch met the eyes of his adversary…and held them.

Miss Ada came bustling out of the ladies’ room, muttering about the side dishes she planned to prepare to fatten up her Aaron. She hustled the two agents to the door where Hotch hesitated, giving the Police Chief a disinterested glance.

“I’m sorry, Chief.” He shook his head. “I really don’t remember you.”

Miss Ada looked up, noticing the two men’s exchange for the first time. “Oh, well…Randy’s not the memorable sort, Aaron. No need to apologize. Some people just don’t stand out.”

Taking Hotch’s arm, she pulled him out the station door.

Randy Crenshaw, Police Chief of Bluefields, Virginia, slumped, letting his paunchy beer-gut sag over his belt. Deflated, for a moment he wished he was going to lunch with the visitors. They looked happy and successful.

Two things Randy knew he would never be.

 


	113. Opening the Jacket

Hotch had a hard time eating, but he did his best.

It wasn’t the food. Miss Ada prepared a nourishing, tasty, plentiful repast for her two guests.

It was the attention.

The old lady had kept up a stream of conversation, delving into every aspect of Hotch’s life and responding with joyous, little noises at every triumph; sorrowful eyes, compressed lips, and the occasional consoling hug at every setback. But once the meal was ready and the three sat down at an elegant table, Hotch was the focus of all eyes.

Miss Ada’s were full of adoration, enjoying the spectacle of the little starveling, who still stared out at her from a place in her memory, eating his fill for the first time in her experience. She watched every bite.

Morgan’s eyes were brimming with humor. He caught the occasional, furtive scowl from his boss, but it was so much fun seeing him squirm under a deluge of affection. Morgan thought, given the opportunity, Miss Ada would like to adopt Hotch. He reveled in encouraging her to hover and coo at the Unit Chief.

Derek had felt a shift in their relationship during the last two weeks. Having seen Hotch’s past to a degree unequaled by anyone else, except perhaps Rossi, some of the fences had fallen.

At least while they were off the clock.

Morgan felt more comfortable subjecting Hotch to gentle teasing; the lesser alpha nipping at the leader without necessarily challenging him. He also no longer thought twice about friendly, physical contact. Some subtle signal had elevated him to Rossi’s level where encouragement and support and even a kind of kinship could be expressed by a hand on the back, a light push, a quick squeeze or slap.

Morgan thought that all the groundwork laid in an effort to let some light and air into Hotch’s closed-off places was coming together. He sensed a convergence that would propel his boss into happier times…as long as there were no setbacks. And he intended to minimize the risk of any by standing guard over the rest of this journey, orchestrating it to the best of his ability.

Once their hostess was satisfied with the amount of food her little prodigal had consumed, Morgan retreated to the living room, giving Hotch and his ex-teacher some private time. He’d smiled when Hotch’s Southern Gentleman surfaced, making him insist on helping with the dishes and inquiring if there was anything…anything at all…that Miss Ada needed.

Beaming, she laid a palm along her Aaron’s lean cheek “Just a picture of you every now and then…of your boy, too.”

As it turned out, the elderly lady was quite self-sufficient. Despite her protestations, Hotch had prowled the premises, looking for things to repair; trying to think of anything he could provide that would make Miss Ada’s life easier or more luxurious. But she and her home were well-maintained. In the end, Aaron managed to replace some outdoor lights that were accessible only by scaling a ladder. It wasn’t much, but it made him feel better about imposing on her.

Her only complaint about her living conditions was that the dusty, parched earth of Bluefields wasn’t conducive to gardening. She did miss flowers. Morgan saw the spark in Hotch’s eye, and was certain that Miss Ada would be receiving elaborate, weekly arrangements from a florist for the rest of her life.

But four hours was a long enough lunch. It was time to hit the road.

“Miss Ada, thank you for having us in your home, but we really need to be on our way.” Morgan draped an arm around Hotch’s shoulders. “Say your goodbyes, Boss-man. I’ll be out front.” He gave the ex-teacher his courtliest nod and left Hotch to take his leave in private.

After Morgan had left, Miss Ada stepped up to her former student, wrapping him in another crushing hug; one he felt all the more thanks to an over-full stomach. While she had him close, her voice took on a mischievous note.

“Aaron, at the station earlier…you _did_ remember Randy, didn’t you?”

There was a beat of silence while Hotch tried to decipher if he was going to be scolded or lectured for lying. He sighed. He couldn’t continue the charade. Not to Miss Ada.

“Y-e-a-h…I’m sorry. I didn’t want to get into anything with him. Especially not with you there.”

Hotch didn’t think it was possible, but the hug squeezed the tiniest bit tighter before releasing him. Ada gripped his shoulders, pushing him back and peering up, fixing him with a stern look.

“Well, whatever you suffered from Randy Crenshaw in the past, believe me when I tell you he’s going to have his own special brand of anonymous cowardice thrown back in his face every day he comes to work and sees that picture of you Mr. Morgan brought for my desk.”

Hotch’s eyes widened. He hadn’t paid attention to objects when he was inside police headquarters. People…Miss Ada and then Randy, had taken his focus. A small thrill of satisfaction raced through his heart, making his eyes tilt up at the corners.

Miss Ada’s expression turned grave. Her hands knotted in the folds of Hotch’s shirt, holding him in place.

“When you were little, I taught you to keep your jacket closed so the other children wouldn’t see the blood on your shirt…wouldn’t make fun of you, or ask you questions.”

Hotch swallowed; memories all the stronger now that he’d come home to where they were born. Voice tight, he responded. “I remember.”

Ada gave him a gentle shake. “Well, now I’m telling you to open your jacket, little Aaron. Let them look at you.” Pulling him down, she kissed his cheek.

“I promise you…no one will make fun of what they see.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Outside, Morgan leaned against the SUV, thumbing the buttons on his phone.

“Hey, Rossi….We’re still in Bluefields. Just wanted to let you know things are good. Hotch’s in saying goodbye to that teacher he had. I'm gonna see if we can do Tazewell next. Then we’ll pack it in for the night. Don’t wanna hit him with too much all at once. Want him to have a little time for it to settle in his head before we tackle Richmond and Felicia.

“And when you get this, if you know any fancy flower service that’ll deliver out here…text Hotch the info. I have a feeling he’s gonna be setting Miss Ada up with something regular.”

He glanced up at the prim, little cottage with its tidy, but flowerless, yard and smiled to see Hotch coming out the front door, Ada on his arm.

“So far, so good, man. He’s coming. Gotta go. I’ll call you from Richmond tomorrow.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi let the call go to voicemail. He was busy.

A rush shipment had arrived. A rather large shipment.

Two sizeable crates packed with a variety of items. All emblazoned with a star-spangled, black Lab. Rossi was admiring mouse pads, mugs, pens, badges, t-shirts, boxers, key chains, pillar candles, rulers…an _astounding_ variety of items.

He sighed. The return of personalized goods was strictly forbidden. He was stuck with tributes to Marty Palmer’s dog.

According to the conditions stipulated in the truce he had struck with the doctor, neither of them was permitted to taunt the other with their respective, canine companions. Nothing had been committed to paper, but it was, nonetheless, ironclad. A Gentlemen’s Agreement. To break it would result in an escalation of unimaginable proportions.

Rossi fingered the Fudge-ware, marveling at the quality, the color, and definition of the images. He extracted a bowl intended to hold dog food. _Well, at least it’s not a total waste._

Mudgie’s tail thumped an appreciative cadence that night at dinner. He missed Fudge.

But not so much when he could enjoy her likeness on his bowl of leftover Stroganoff, courtesy of Garcia’s generous gastronomic gifts. He kind of missed the ribbons, too. They’d made a nice fluttery-crunchy sound when he moved.

Really, the last two weeks of unaccustomed company and edibles had been thoroughly delicious; pure pleasure.

From a canine point of view.

 


	114. Colors of the Past

“Done!”

A paint-splattered Prentiss stood back, admiring the hideous, new color scheme of Morgan’s apartment. Only the tiny bathroom had escaped. It was where Clooney had been sequestered with water, food, and a newspapered floor, protecting him from contact with wet walls and dripping ceilings. It had taken a full day of concerted effort. But it was worth it.

She and Reid stood at the epicenter of their misdeed, turning in slow circles, letting the ambiance of magenta, muddy-burnt orange, and avocado play across their senses.

“Morgan’s gonna kill us.” Reid felt a tiny bit guilty. Emily had been the one who came up with the plan. She’d also been the one to choose the colors so reminiscent of 70s style. And although they’d agreed to split the cost of the endeavor, Reid had been the one to pick up the supplies and transport them to the scene of the crime. He’d stuffed his car with brushes, paint cans, rollers, tarps and masking tape. As prime procurer, he was a little resentful that Derek would probably blame him more than Prentiss.

Emily noticed her cohort’s expression didn’t mirror her own blissfully vengeful satisfaction.

“Problem, Reid?”

“No…It’s just…no…nothing….” What was done, was done. The chips would fall, and Spencer was pretty sure the bulk would fall on him. His extraordinary mind ratcheted through the permutations he considered applicable to Morgan’s reactions. In approximately 89% of them, Reid was the primary villain.

 _Who bought the stuff?_ Reid.

 _Who brought it to my place?_ Reid.

 _Who took Clooney?_ Since he planned on leaving a note in case Morgan made an early return and was concerned about his home being minus a dog…again: Reid.

Prentiss shrugged. She’d given up trying to figure out the young genius a long time ago. In truth, she’d never really tried. Emily delighted in surprises. Rather than explain Reid, she looked forward to quixotic, beguiling behavior that was much more fun than rendering him predictable by solving the puzzle of Spencer.

She gave a last appreciative glance to the transformation wrought by simple changes in color, wiping her hands down the legs of her jeans. The action left streaks of paint behind. Prentiss intended to wear the incriminating garment sometime after Morgan had discovered the prank. She was looking forward to the effect it would have when strutted before the victim of their crime. Dusting her hands together, she gave Reid her widest grin.

“Now…for the finishing touches. Start cleaning up in here. I’ll be right back.”

“‘Finishing touches?’ Wha…?” But Prentiss had darted away before Reid could find out how much more of an abomination the woman planned to make Derek’s home.

Spencer began rolling up tarps. They’d agreed to make a quick getaway once the deed was done. All the incriminating evidence would be folded into a canvas-wrapped bundle and discarded in the nearest dumpster. _Just like a panicked, not-too-bright unsub_ , Reid thought, sighing for the lack of elegance capping off Prentiss’ master plan.

“Reid!” Emily’s voice sounded from the hallway. “Help me!”

Heaving the lumpy fabric bundle into a corner, Spencer went to see what else required his assistance. So far, brawn had been his shortcoming, but his height had come in very handy indeed when it came to painting Morgan’s low ceilings.

Reaching the doorway, Reid froze, jaw dropping for a moment before it realigned itself at last into a grin both wide and stunned. “Emily! What the hell!?”

Front door propped open, Prentiss was dragging an amorphous blob of something covered in worn, soiled, lime green Naugahyde. Her free arm cradled a variety of objects appropriate to the period in which Morgan would now find himself living. Reid recognized a lava lamp, a disco ball…and the thing being pulled along the floor was…he swallowed…a beanbag chair?

“C’ _mon_! Help me!” Prentiss panted. “There’s more in my car. We have to hurry! We’re gonna move all Morgan’s stuff from the living room into the bedroom and kitchen…”

“…so when he walks in, he’ll be stepping back in time…” Reid added with a happy glint in his eye. As a profiler, Derek would see the hand of Emily in the selection of all the vintage décor. It was common knowledge that the young doctor was shopping-challenged. Throw in those paint-stained jeans she planned to flaunt before him, and the tables were turned. Reid was off the hook…or at least hooked to a much less vengeance-worthy degree than Prentiss.

He loped down the hall, eager to see what else his sly co-worker had excavated from the backrooms of vintage stores and thrift shops.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch was subdued during the drive to Tazewell.

Morgan considered him more thoughtful than brooding. He imagined the Unit Chief had plenty of material to occupy his mind for quite some time. Derek respected that, acknowledging Hotch’s mood by keeping small talk to a minimum.

They’d spent more time than intended in Bluefields. The sun was setting as the SUV pulled into the parking lot of the clinic where Dr. Swinburn presided. Morgan hadn’t called ahead. Not knowing their own schedule, he was reluctant to say anything that might keep the doctor waiting for visitors with such uncertain plans.

So, seeing Swinburn inserting a key into the lock of a small pickup truck was a timely and pleasant surprise.

“That’s him.” Morgan pointed his chin in the doctor’s direction, giving the SUV’s horn a light tap as he pulled in.

Swinburn hesitated, truck door halfway open. His initial concern was that he was being signaled, warned of the arrival of someone sick or injured. But when he saw the smiling face of the vehicle’s driver, an answering grin graced his own.

When he noticed the man in the passenger seat, his brows rose.

Morgan cut the engine, slipping out of his seatbelt and jumping out with an eager expression. Hotch followed at a much slower pace, trying to sync up his memories with the older man beaming a welcome at Morgan.

“Hey, Doc! Brought you something.” The agent’s good humor was contagious. If Swinburn hadn’t already been smiling, eyes fixed on Hotch, he would have been unable to resist Morgan’s incredulous joy at the opportune timing of their arrival.

Hotch lagged behind, approaching with caution. The day had been full already. It had begun in the house in which he’d grown up and had ended in Miss Ada’s home. Throw in his brief look for the laundry building where Felicia had tended his wounds, and the encounter with Randy Crenshaw…and Hotch was reaching his limit. He already had an overwhelming number of impressions and recollections to sort through.

And here came another.

The doctor shook Morgan’s hand. Then, walking with measured pace, he approached Hotch.

“Well, well, well, well, well…” It was unsettlingly similar to the greeting with which Randy had accosted him. Hotch’s eyes were guarded, unsure mainly due to the lingering aftertaste of his recent experience with the Bluefields Police Chief. But the resemblance ended there.

Dr. Swinburn, eyes crinkled and maybe a little damp, stopped inches away from this man whose survival he’d fought for. Taking Hotch’s shoulders, the doctor studied him, looking for the troubled, damaged boy he’d once known…and failing to find him. The man before him was solid and whole and healthy. _He’s had some shocks…it shows in his eyes. But he’s not a ghost anymore. He’s as real as they come._

“Aaron…Aaron, you’re looking well.” And with that final judgment, Swinburn enveloped his former patient in a hug the strength of which rivaled Miss Ada’s.

_This is one that God-forsaken town didn’t get to keep. This one’s a success story…for me, as well. What a great way to end the day._

Morgan stood by, smiling at how fierce-eyed Agent Hotchner, Unit Chief of the BAU, also had some indefinable quality that apparently made him downright huggable.


	115. Friends

Hotch did something foreign to his nature.

He expelled a deep breath, along with some of the anxiety the day had brought as his memories collided, and meshed, with reality, and let himself relax into Dr. Swinburn’s embrace…even managing to return it a little. But the doctor was sensitive to patients in general, and to this man who’d come so far in particular. He felt a slight trembling in the body beneath his hands.

_He’s tired. And maybe a little overwhelmed. This is a surfeit of emotion I’m feeling running through him._

Swinburn sighed. He would have liked to invite the two agents to dinner, or maybe for a drink, but he thought Aaron would likely be a glassy-faced zombie if he didn’t get some downtime soon. He pushed the man back, and chuckled at the look of polite resignation in the weary eyes. He gave Hotch a gentle shake.

“I would dearly love to talk to you, Aaron. But not tonight.” He turned to include Morgan in the conversation. “Any chance you boys’ll be around tomorrow? It’s Sunday, so I don’t anticipate having to work…” He glanced at the sky, growing darker by the minute as the sun dropped below the horizon. “…Night’s coming on. If you take some lodgings nearby, I’ll treat y’all to breakfast and…well…” He returned his gaze to Hotch. “…I’d like a chance to talk to you, Aaron.”

Morgan had thought they’d get closer to Richmond before looking for a motel, but knowing Swinburn was one of the few who could fill in any gaps Hotch might still have in his past, and knowing this was someone who’d held Hotch’s secret…that he’d loved his father as well as hated him…longer than anyone else, he didn’t want Hotch to miss this opportunity.

“As a matter of fact, Doc, I was gonna ask if you could recommend someplace.”

“Hillside Inn. No more’n a quarter mile east; right before you hit the freeway.” Both Morgan and Swinburn saw Hotch’s relieved sigh, the tension running out of his shoulders at the realization that he’d be spared any further rides on the emotional rollercoaster he’d been traveling since morning.

The doctor smiled. “It’s not fancy, but it’s clean and there’s room service. You can rest, Aaron.” He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt, retrieving a business card. “When you boys are up and about tomorrow morning, give me a call. Pager number’s best; it’ll reach me anywhere. I’ll make sure you’re well-fed before you continue on.”

Morgan pocketed the card. “Appreciate it. But I might let you two catch up on your own. I’d kind of like to take a look around the town. Didn’t get much chance last time I was here.”

Swinburn’s nod expressed gratitude for the agent’s show of tact. He’d been hoping to get his former patient alone in case Aaron preferred to keep private some of the things they’d touch upon in their conversation. The doctor displayed equal discretion when he refrained from pointing out that there was a serious dearth of tourist attractions for Morgan to explore in tiny Tazewell.

Hotch stifled a yawn. “Morgan’s been cruise director on this voyage, but, if it’s okay with him, I’d like to spend some time with you, too.” His expression grew grave, making him look worn and gaunt. “I’m learning there were people looking out for me, even when things were at their darkest. You’re one of them. I owe you a lot, Dr. Swinburn.”

The doctor shook his head. “You were never as alone as you thought, Aaron. But we’ll talk about it tomorrow. Get some rest now.” He ran a hand down Hotch’s arm, from shoulder to elbow. “It really is good to see you, son. Good night, Aaron…Mr. Morgan.”

With a nod, Swinburn got into his truck, smiling and giving himself a mental pat on the back for all the trouble he’d taken on young Aaron’s behalf.

From what he could see, it had been time and effort well-spent.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Reid stood at the door with Clooney in his arms, surveying the final product of his and Prentiss’ ill-spent Saturday.

And grinned.

It was pure Emily in the end. And it was revolting. She’d admitted that some of the items she’d brought hadn’t cost a cent. Despairing of ever selling them, thrift shop managers had waved them off; even helping her load her car before she had time to change her mind. In the wake of her departure, there were now several store employees in Quantico in a state of bemusement at the woman stuck in the 70s with questionable taste. Actually, ‘questionable’ was kind. More like horrid…viscerally abominable…or, as one young clerk put it…sucky.

The beanbag chair, lava lamp and disco ball had been joined by a lurid, purple shag rug; olive green, macramé, hanging, plant holders; rainbow-hued, plastic, beaded curtains in every doorway; a kidney-shaped, Formica coffee table; a large, brass wall clock, the face of which featured a publicity still from the T.V. show ‘Laverne and Shirley’; and a collection of well-preserved, vintage Chia Pets…although Reid supposed Chia Pets were timeless. But the fact that several of these depicted Richard Nixon qualified them as era-appropriate.

The two agents had disposed of their tools-of-destruction, looking suspicious as they dragged the rolled tarp and its contents to a dumpster, casting furtive glances over their shoulders in case Morgan showed up early. The paint Reid had procured dried quickly, leaving no lingering fumes. It would have been possible to let Clooney stay in his home, but the dog’s inordinate interest in the new décor, evinced by nibbling, pawing and, for one unfortunate Chia Pet, raising his leg over it, made them decide to go through with the plan to have Reid board him.

“We did good, kid.” Prentiss’ glee was so animated, it was almost another presence in the room.

“No…we did really, really b-a-a-a-a-d,” Reid intoned, but unable to contain his own toothy grin.

“Bad is the best _kind_ of good.” Emily delivered this bit of wisdom with her paint-streaked nose lifted; a smudged prophetess proclaiming the new wisdom of mischief.

“Well, I’d say I was never here, but…” Reid nodded toward the note he’d left regarding Clooney’s whereabouts.

Prentiss’ derisive snort cut him off. She picked up the note, tearing it in half.

“Hey! I don’t want Morgan to worry about his dog!”

“There are other ways to handle it, Reid.” Prentiss cast about, finding a pen and notepad. She scribbled on it for a moment. Tearing a page out, she dropped it on the floor immediately inside the front door, where it would be obvious to Morgan once his initial shock at his apartment being transformed into a ‘groovy pad’ faded.

 

YOUR DOG IS BEING HELD IN A SAFE PLACE.

DON’T TRY TO FIND HIM.

OR ELSE.

 

Reid’s eyes widened. He clutched Clooney closer. “Morgan’s _really_ gonna kill us…”

“Hey, genius…we were dead a long time and about seven gallons of paint ago.” Prentiss pushed her co-conspirator out the door.

“This just means it’ll be more of a slow, lingering, painful kind of death…that’s all.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

“You okay, Hotch?”

The agents had found rooms at the motel Dr. Swinburn recommended. Standing outside adjacent doors, go-bags in hand, Morgan wanted just a word or two from his boss that would reassure him that this had been a good day.

Hotch nodded, looking dazed. Now that he knew there would be no more shocks or discoveries coming his way…at least for a few hours…he was letting himself go. Letting his guard down. Allowing fatigue to take over. In his heart of hearts, he knew he needed sleep more than anything. His subconscious needed the break to sort through the events and people of the day.

“You want anything to eat? Drink?”

“What?” Hotch was more than half gone, but, recognizing Morgan’s need for communication, he pulled himself back to his present company. “Uh…no. I’m good. Still full from Miss Ada’s.”

Morgan nodded. “Well…g’night. See ya tomorrow.”

Halfway through the door to his room, Hotch’s voice called him back. It was soft, inquisitive.

“Morgan…why are you doing all this?”

Hotch knew he’d already asked once. He knew the answer he’d been given: that Morgan wanted him to feel the freedom that comes with escaping the tethers of the past. But maybe because he was tired, maybe because his emotions were drained…Hotch felt there was some other answer. Something simple and direct that had always, and would always have a shadowy presence between him and his second-in-command.

Morgan was feeling the day, too. Maybe fatigue made both men abandon some of their alpha posturing. Derek sighed, blinking.

“‘Cause I like you, man.”

Hotch gave his friend a considering look, nodding. Then he dredged up one last emotion before putting all the ragged feelings to bed for the night.

“I like you, too. Always have.” He yawned. “G’night.”

“Night, Hotch.”

Nothing had changed. It had been there all the time. But naming it, recognizing it, brought the subtle shift that had begun to its final fruition. Neither would mention it again. It would encounter some bumps along the way, but both would treasure it for the rest of their lives.

Friendship. 


	116. Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On

Hotch showered, rinsing away the gritty sweat he’d accumulated; the leavings of emotion coupled with the long drive in the Virginia heat. He smiled down at the indelible, Raspberry Leopard mark on his shoulder. Jack had been refurbishing it with a connoisseur’s care every chance he got.

Too tired to rerun any of the day’s conversations or events, Hotch let his mind drift.

When his head hit the pillow, he was asleep in less than four minutes.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“C’ _mon_ , Dad! Jeez! Quit dragging your feet. You _promised_ …”

Jack.

Tall and adolescent and importunate, the boy was harrying his father along like an Australian sheepdog with an errant member of his flock. Goading, pushing, determined to herd this obstinate, lanky, dark-haired lamb along to its preordained fate.

“C’ _mon_!”

Amorphous, gray mist surrounded them. But it didn’t feel dank or chilly. Hotch wondered for a moment if it was really there. Or if it was panic blurring the edges of his vision, his eyes having lost the ability to focus on anything other than the façade of the red, brick building before him. The place to which his son was shepherding him.

The place with the calligraphic sign. Scrolled letters. Black with red outlines. Against a cream background. With a menagerie of beasts and beings cavorting through the loops and serifs; leering and beckoning…depending on the attitude of he who dared approach.

 

\--Reilly’s Tattoo Art--

 

“C’ _mon_!” Clearly, Jack was one who felt beckoned. “Dad! You’re not gonna back out now. Not when I’ve waited this long.”

Hotch felt his shoulders compressed between hands that were surely too large and strong to be his son’s. Rough, male affection propelled him forward with irresistible strength. It was like being battered into submission by an overgrown, loveable puppy.

They were under the ominous sign.

They were before the door. Recessed between large, plate glass windows. Papered over with depictions of the establishment’s offerings. Hotch’s eyes widened in horrified anticipation, recognition of the rites that were performed within; of the ‘art’ that would be inflicted upon his tender, innocent skin. He swallowed, finding the power of speech had deserted him.

“Oh, man…this’s gonna be _so_ fun!” The expression on Jack’s nearly-adult face was the antithesis of Hotch’s.

“C’ _mon_!”

A hand between his shoulder blades, and arm around his waist…and they were through the door. Down the rabbit hole. Past the point of no return. _Well, **almost**. Nothing’s been done to me yet. I can still get away. _

But then… _she_ appeared. And Hotch knew he was lost.

“Welcome, gentlemen.” Her voice was a honeyed purr…hearing it felt like drowning in chocolate syrup. “I’m Amanda. What can I do to you today?”

Her eyes scanned both newcomers, but they settled on Hotch. Nonetheless, Jack spoke up. It was just as well: the elder Hotchner’s voice was still lost, held captive in some unreachable nether-land.

“We’re here to get tattoos. Something in leopard, but we’re open to other suggestions, too.” This person who couldn’t possibly be his son… _When did he get so tall?_...flashed a grin. Arm draped across Hotch’s shoulders, making him feel more a captive than a comrade, Jack gave his speechless father a pat on the chest. “So long as they match. That’s the only criterion, right, Dad?”

Amanda leaned on the countertop separating the store into two sections: where designs were displayed and selected…and where they were applied. Hotch swallowed. _Where skin-virgins become…become… **tapestries**!_

There was a sensual quality to the way the proprietress moved. She _insinuated_ herself toward her customers. “Leopard? Leopard’s my specialty.” She licked her lips, dark eyes boring into Hotch’s own. “I do like a good bit of leopard…”

In desperation, Hotch tore his eyes away. They fell to the woman’s neck, then couldn’t help drifting to the right. A shapely shoulder peeked through the strategic cut-out of her black t-shirt. Shades of rose, of pink and mauve, whirled around satiny, black leopard spots.

It was masterfully done.

It was art.

It was hypnotic.

Hotch heard his son’s gasp as he saw where his father’s eyes were focused.

“That’s _it_! That’s _perfect_! Dad! That’s what we’re getting! Raspberry Leopards!”

From the rear of the store a metallic droning buzzed into existence. Amanda glanced over her pink-spotted shoulder, grinning.

“That means it’s time, gentlemen. Who’s first?” She extended a hand, taking Hotch’s arm. “How ‘bout you…Daddy?”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch awoke with the tinny whine of the motel-provided alarm clock ringing in his ears.

Cotton-mouthed and tight-stomached, he sat up, blinking.

_Really, Hotchner? All that happened to you over the last couple of weeks…especially yesterday…and **that’s** what has you concerned? Something that’s more than a decade away? **If** it happens at all? Jeeeeeeezzzz…_

He rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom, marveling at the warped perspective of his subconscious. It was like trying to write with a demented censor hovering over his shoulder. The things that were allowed through were…inexplicable; the entire process dripping with illogic and substandard communication.

Hotch had showered the night before, but a few minutes under pounding, cool jets of water did wonders to clear the cobwebs from his cognitive processes. Feeling much more human, and much less tattoo-obsessed, he opened the door to his room to find Morgan standing before it, fist raised to knock.

 “Hey.” Morgan’s smile wavered, leading Hotch to believe that his friend’s night hadn’t been as restful as one might hope either.

“Hey. Sleep okay?”

Morgan shrugged. “Yeah…mostly. Just….” His voice trailed off to the accompaniment of another shrug.

Hotch’s head swiveled, picking up the slight evasion. “What? Something wrong, Morgan?”

“No. Just…” The agent came to a decision. Squaring his shoulders he offered his boss a clear-eyed appraisal of his night’s rest. “I just had a weird dream. That’s all.”

Hotch’s chin raised, his eyes narrowing to inquisitive slits. Ordinarily, he would have let the matter pass, but having surprised himself by dreaming a scenario that left his mouth dry and his stomach twisted, he was more curious than usual. But he was also considerate. Prying into whatever his colleague’s unconscious spewed out would only be admissible if he offered something of his own…something of like tender.

“I had a weird dream, too.”

“Yeah?” Morgan’s brows rose.

“Yeah…” Hotch found he couldn’t continue without shaking his head and letting a wry smile find a home on his lips. “I dreamt that Jack was following up on a deal I made him.”

Morgan couldn’t resist a smile of his own. “Deal? What kind of ‘deal’ you fallin’ for, Boss-man? Don’t you know that boy of yours can wrap you ‘round his finger?”

Hotch surrendered to one of his rare full-face grins…eyes tilting upward with foxy glee. “I know. I told him we could get matching tattoos when he turns eighteen.”

Morgan bent over, his guffaw waking any guests of the Hillside Inn who might have chosen to sleep late. “Ohhhhh…Hotch…brother, you’re gettin’ tattooed, man!”

Hotch joined Morgan, dissolving into laughter; the phantoms of the night taking flight before daylight and a friend who knew how to find the humor in such a situation.

“Yeah, I guess I am. But it made for one helluva dream. Tattoo parlor… _beautiful_ tattoo artist…” One of Hotch’s brows rose, a purely male reaction to the kind of loveliness he knew his subordinate could appreciate.

Morgan wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “So I guess when you become a daddy, you better be ready to lose a lot of battles, right?”

Hotch rubbed a hand across his face, erasing the traces of concern…and joy…and all the other emotions that came with the label of ‘Daddy.’ Resuming his usual stolid, stoic persona.  “Yeah, Morgan. I guess so.”

Both men took a moment to breathe and further regain their composure before Hotch turned a curious eye on his friend. “So what’d you dream? What kept you up?”

“Nothing like that, man.” Morgan gave his leader a smug grin. “No chance mine’ll _ever_ come true.

“I dreamt I was living in a disco den from the seventies.”

 


	117. Going Unanswered

Morgan stayed with Hotch and Dr. Swinburn long enough to scarf down eggs and pancakes.

Then, he made his excuses and wandered out into the bright, hot morning. It didn’t matter that Tazewell had nothing of interest for tourists to add to their pilgrimage through Virginia. It was a beautiful day and his boss…his friend…was feeling better and looking better than he had in a long time.

The laughter shared over their respective dreams was something Morgan never would have expected even a few months ago. Hotch had let him in.

He’d seen bits and pieces before, but access had usually been the result of emotional overkill; his leader having been pushed to a point where the ghosts inside him exploded under pressure, granting spectators a brief glimpse into a tortured past.

But this morning Hotch had volunteered a piece of himself that was warm and human and a little bit silly. Morgan felt privileged. He grinned, knowing he’d guard the man’s feelings and trust with the same dedication he applied to keeping his body safe.

He glanced at his watch, wondering how much time he should allow the doctor and Hotch for their private confab. They still needed to get to Richmond and then back to Quantico. Morgan wanted Hotch to get a decent night’s rest before returning to  work tomorrow.

_Two hours. I’ll give them two hours and then make some noise about moving on._

He sniffed the air, scenting dampness in one direction. Maybe a river or pond nestled in what looked like a park a few blocks down the main thoroughfare…which brought Clooney to mind. Morgan’s dog loved their sessions in the park. Running, wrestling, playing with sticks and things that smelled interesting…it was all good in canine-world.

Feeling a pang of homesickness for his pet, Morgan pulled out his phone. He always left his answering machine turned to high volume when he was on the road. That way Clooney could hear his master’s voice. He had no idea if the dog responded, but it comforted Morgan to think he did. He dialed his own number.

“Hey, Cloon…hey, boy! ‘S me. You bein’ good? Huh?” Morgan strolled down the street, relaxed and contented. “I’ll be home later today, Cloon. We’ll go for a walk, okay? Be good, boy!” He darted a surreptitious glance around to be sure no one was eavesdropping. “Love ya, Clooney…Bye.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Miles away Morgan’s cheerfully affectionate message for his dog echoed through an empty apartment. After he’d hung up, the only sound was the ticking of the ‘Laverne and Shirley’ clock dominating the magenta-and-avocado-striped living room wall.

Clooney was a few miles away in Reid’s apartment, licking his chops after a breakfast of grilled steak prepared especially for him. Spencer was working off some of his lingering guilt for his part in what had been done to Morgan’s home by pampering Morgan’s dog.

Clooney’s day would include a romp in the park, a lunch of pork sausage, and a visit to the pet store where Reid would buy him whatever toy his canine heart desired.

Clooney would take full advantage.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Dr. Swinburn couldn’t help assessing his former patient. And nor could he help seeing that Hotch was aware of being assessed.

The agent had eaten, but not nearly as much as his companion, Mr. Morgan. Swinburn was willing to admit that Aaron was slighter, so probably came by his lesser appetite honestly. But as the meal had progressed, the man’s dark eyes had become guarded.

_He’s not looking forward to a discussion. I don’t blame him. He’s revisiting too much in too short a time._

Morgan, more than Hotch, had filled the doctor in on their itinerary. The simple words hadn’t conveyed the depth of emotion such a weekend would have had for Aaron.

_And he’s not done. There’s that lady in Richmond. Maybe I’ll let him be the pilot for this session. I’ll just be available for him to take it as far as he wants._

Morgan had left. Hotch was subjecting a piece of toast to desultory scrutiny; picking at the crust in what was clearly an attempt to avoid eye contact. Swinburn leaned forward, keeping his voice private and low.

“Aaron, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

The toast-picking stopped, but the eyes remained downcast. “Do what?”

“Talk about anything that makes you uncomfortable. I’d like to know how you’re doing. I can get that by talking about your life _now_ …rather than your past.” Swinburn let the silence between them extend, recognizing it as time Aaron needed to work through emotional nerve endings that had already been frayed by the previous day’s events…probably to the extent that they were numbing themselves as a means of self-preservation.

Finally, Hotch nodded. Licking his lips, he kept his attention focused on the crumbs surrounding his plate. “I didn’t think it would be this hard…but…but I…” He trailed off in a sigh.

“But you’re feeling things you didn’t expect and you need time to regroup. I understand. That’s normal. Healthy, in fact.” Hotch’s brows flicked upward at the last words.

 _His reluctance isn’t from shyness_ , thought Swinburn. _He wants to be sure he expresses himself with accuracy and precision. He’s weighing what he says to be sure it lives up to his standards._

A few more beats of silence, then Hotch straightened, leaning back in his seat, forcing his eyes to meet Swinburn’s. He took a deep, preparatory breath, feeling the meal he’d just eaten moving uncomfortably as it shared space with the tension in his stomach. When he spoke, his words were measured and deliberate.

“Sometimes I think my life boils down to two questions, Doctor. And no one person can give me definitive answers. So I have to gather impressions and evidence and try to put the pieces together myself.”

Hotch glanced out the window of the small bistro, Tazewell’s breakfast-place-of-choice. He recognized it was a beautiful day, but only in a clinical way, cataloguing the elements, rather than feeling them. He’d once told another doctor, Marty Palmer, that he felt as though a piece of cardboard had been inserted between him and the rest of the world. It was getting flimsier, but at moments like this…when the past felt stronger than the present…at moments like this, the cardboard gained weight and substance.

Hotch sighed, consciously relaxing his shoulders, hoping the impulse would travel through the rest of his body. _If Morgan were here, he’d press on my chest._ But that was another souvenir from the past; another ingredient that thickened the cardboard.

“What two questions, Aaron?” Swinburn had a sad feeling that he already knew, but it was important for the patient to bring the broken shards of his childhood up to the surface himself; to spread them out where they could lie in the light, either to reassemble, or to shatter further…maybe to a point where they would disperse like powder thrown into the wind. “If you don’t have the answers yourself, then ask them as many times, of as many people as necessary to have them resolved. What two questions, Aaron?”

The faintest of ironic grins traced a path over Hotch’s lips. It was frightening and freeing to speak the words.

“Why me? Why did it happen to me? And, since it did happen…and it changed me…am I normal?” In the back of his mind, Hotch could hear Jack telling him about blue making the best skies. He could hear Swinburn himself saying he’d never been committed to a mental institution…but he still felt unfinished, unfulfilled.

“That’s it. Those are the questions to which I return time and again. They’re always waiting for me whenever I have a moment.” He shook his head, a small, mirthless smile for his own inability to accept the answers he’d found so far. But having voiced them, he felt a decrease in the tension, the weight of his self-doubt. Hotch leaned back, searching Dr. Swinburn’s face, hoping for other, better answers.

The doctor studied this man who, from his medical point of view at least, embodied successful survival of unthinkable cruelties.

“Aaron, no answer will satisfy you. I could give you a dozen of them. All suppositions and theories. But they won’t work for you because you _know_ you didn’t _deserve_ what happened. It’s the unfairness you’re railing against. And that will never change. If you’re searching for some solid foundation for your past…that’s the best you’ll find. Not ‘why me,’ but rather ‘I deserved better.’

“And are you normal?” The doctor shook his head. “I have yet to discover a definition of ‘normal’ that covers all bases, all eventualities. I think you’re still questioning whether or not you survived…or if you lost something vital along the way. Your best yardstick is the people around you, Aaron. I’ve only met Mr. Morgan, and I’ve spoken briefly on the phone with that man who was tending you…a Mr. Rossi?” Hotch nodded. “Well, judging by those two, and what Mr. Morgan has told me about your sojourn in Bluefields yesterday, I’d say you inspire those who surround you to acts of kindness and courage. That is not usual, but it is exceptionally admirable. Normal? No. But worth fostering and spreading? Yes.

“I don’t know if any of us are ‘normal,’ Aaron. But I will say you are ‘balanced.’ Well and truly balanced. That’s what allows us to move through the things life throws at us. Normal be damned…it’s keeping your balance that matters. It might waver at times. You might lose it on occasion. But you’ll always regain it.

“I’d stake my reputation and my life’s work on that, Aaron.

“There will never be completely satisfying answers for you. But don’t stop asking. Maybe someday you’ll find someone wiser or more gifted than an old, country doctor, who can lay your doubts to rest. In the meantime, trust yourself. You have nothing to overcome…no dark beast is waiting in the wings to pounce out and surprise you. The heavy lifting’s been done. Your foundation is solid.

“You can build whatever you wish on it… And one more thing...”

Hotch blinked, waiting for some final verdict.

Swinburn’s smile was broad and genuine.

“I loathed Bluefields more than anyplace I’ve lived or practiced…before or since. But I’d go back in a heartbeat if there was another boy like you struggling to survive. You don’t owe anyone who helped you back then, son. You didn’t deserve what you suffered…but you _did_ deserve the help you received.

“Believe that you’re worth what others do for you, Aaron. And while you’re looking for that one, perfect, all-encompassing answer to your questions…learn to accept the loyalty and love that you find along the way. You not only deserve it; you’ve earned it.”

 


	118. Enter the Fox

Shane Sandusky felt a little guilty.

His downstairs neighbor, Derek Morgan, always left him in charge of his dog and his mail whenever the FBI agent was on the road. This time was no different, but Shane had gotten sidetracked with issues of his own. This particular issue had been svelte, curvy, and clad in navy blue satin; a combination impossible for him to ignore. He’d managed to visit Clooney very late Friday…or very early Saturday, depending on your viewpoint…but he’d missed the usual Saturday afternoon walk…and Sunday morning.

Now it was Sunday afternoon and, as he inserted his key in the lock of Derek’s front door, Shane sighed, preparing himself for a mess on the floor, and reproachful, canine looks… ** _See_** _what you made me do?..._

He pushed the door open just enough to peek around the corner, having learned that a peeved pooch could leave a… _gift_ …right inside where it could be spread around as it encountered the base of an inward-bound door. Shane inserted his nose into the apartment…and pulled out with an abrupt step backwards. But not because of any malodorous deposit courtesy of Clooney.

Brows drawn together in consternation, Shane blinked, checking the brass number 112 fastened to Morgan’s door.

 _Oka-a-a-a-y…this **is** the right one. This **is** Derek’s…but…_ He poked his head around the corner once more. _…but what the hell did he **do**?!?_

In his mind’s ear he could hear the soundtrack to a Looney Tunes cartoon tripping toward comic insanity with merry abandon. But as weird as Morgan’s apartment looked, there should have been a dog wagging his way out of the bedroom by now. Still uncertain, and loathe to step all the way into what looked like a time portal to a stylistically unfortunate era, Shane whistled, hoping for a canine appearance.

“Cloon! C’m’ere, boy! Clooney!”

Nothing.

Shane braced himself for what else might be lurking in Derek’s apartment and…entered. And saw the stark square of paper on the floor.

_Holy crap!! Someone took Clooney?!?_

For a moment, as he got a closer look at his neighbor’s crib… _No. It’s not a crib anymore. It’s a…a... **pad** …_Shane thought whoever abducted Clooney did him a favor. Even dogs shouldn’t have to bear witness to interior décor like this. But offensive habitat aside, Derek would have mentioned if he was farming his pet out this weekend.

After a quick circuit of the apartment, Shane pulled out his phone. Having found the furniture he’d expected to see upon entering cluttering up the kitchen and bedroom, he suspected a practical joke in progress.

_But punk’d or not, I gotta check in about the Cloon._

“Hey, Derek. It’s Shane…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch had taken a thoughtful leave of Dr. Swinburn.

After exchanging contact information and handshakes all around, interspersed with a hug or two for Hotch, the agents were on the road, Richmond-bound, once again. Morgan didn’t have to argue to be the one behind the wheel. Hotch gazed out his window, head turned away from his companion in the driver’s seat.

After twenty or thirty miles, and repeated glances at the back of his boss’ head, Morgan spoke up. “Hey. Hotch. You okay?”

Silence. Knowing of his friend’s dream-filled, restless night, Morgan wondered if he’d fallen asleep, forehead pressed against the pane of glass. He reached across the seat, squeezing the muscles on the back of Hotch’s neck. “Hey, man…”

“Wha…?” Startled back from mental wandering, the Unit Chief straightened, facing forward.

“Just checkin’, man. You okay?”

Hotch scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. Fine. Sorry.”

Morgan massaged the tense neck muscles for a few more seconds before returning his grip to the steering wheel. _He was really sick. And he had more than his share of emotional trauma then. Now, first time out after being bed-ridden, it’s not just a blast from his past…it’s a megaton explosion coming at him._

“Look, Hotch, if you need to call it quits and head home now, that’s fine. We can leave Richmond for another day.”

Hotch leaned back against the headrest. “You said I should see Felicia sooner rather than later. That sounds like something with a shelf-life. I’m fine.” He turned, giving Morgan a sharp look. “Unless you want to go home? I can rent a car at the next town and go on alone. It’s not a big deal.”

Morgan shook his head. “Uh-uh. You’re stuck with me until we pick up Jack from Rossi’s and head for your place. Once I see all the Hotchners home, then you’ll be free.” He glanced across the seat. “No room for debate on that, Boss-man.”

Hotch’s response was a deep sigh. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back. “You’re a good friend, Morgan. I hope you know that.”

The reply came with a wide smile. “Right back atcha, Hotch.”

Companionable silence stretched between the men once again. The Unit Chief’s thoughts were drifting, re-running words and images from Bluefields and Tazewell, when Morgan’s phone throbbed for attention. The agent flipped the connection open with expert fingers.

“Morgan here.”

Hotch might have ignored the call, but the rapid escalation in Derek’s tone from conversational to outraged pulled him out of his private reverie.

“Someone did **_what_**?!? Clooney’s… _what_? Wait! Shane! Slow down!”

Eyes wide with concern, Hotch watched Morgan’s face turn an interesting shade of brick, the color of congested rage.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch and Morgan were busy profiling; putting every ounce of their combined, professional acumen into deciphering who might have redone Morgan’s home in tasteless kitsch, and then dognapped Clooney.

Hotch found it was a nice respite, drawing his thoughts away from his own introverted travels along paths that were beginning to feel as worn as rabbit-runs.

“Who likes the kind of stuff your neighbor was describing?” The Unit Chief was conducting a field interview. “Who do you associate with…what did he say?...glittery, bright-colored, retro-chic?”

“Retro-crap. He said ‘retro-crap,’ Hotch. And that’s got Garcia’s fingerprints all over it. She’s the one who loves that stuff.” Morgan was fuming, foot a little heavy on the accelerator. “But she’s not devious enough or strong enough to do the kind of work Shane described. And she’d rather chew off her own foot than even _hint_ that Clooney had been taken.” He gave Hotch a sidelong glance. “Garcia would never give a pet owner a moment’s worry.”

Hotch nodded. “Okay, okay.” He already had a fair amount of certainty concerning the culprits’ identity, but this was Morgan’s battle. He continued to interview the victim, helping him past the emotional pitfalls surrounding his having been violated; the ones that were blocking his perception. “So what other conclusions can you draw from what you’ve been told…and remember, it’s second-hand information from a witness after the fact.”

Morgan’s narrowed eyes burned into the road before him, brain clicking as it finally surmounted the barrier of epic rage his neighbor’s call had erected.

“Prentiss. Prentiss and Reid.”

Hotch hid a grin behind his hand, although it rendered his speech a little muffled. “You’re sure? You’re _sure_ there’s no one else in your life who’d enjoy pouring what sounds like a sizeable amount of time and maybe funds into pushing your buttons?”

Morgan shook his head, hands tightening on the wheel. “No. No, it’s payback. Prentiss and Reid. Definitely.”

“Payback?”

“Yeah.”

Hotch bit the inside of his lip to keep the chuckle bubbling up inside him from escaping. “And what exactly have you done to merit ‘payback,’ Agent?”

A long sigh preceded Morgan’s answer. “Paperwork. I gift-wrapped a bunch of files…a _big_ bunch of files…and had them delivered to their homes.”

“Hmmmm.” Hotch kept his eyes fixed on the road, afraid if Morgan glanced at him and eye contact occurred, he’d give himself away. It sometimes took a lot of willpower and stamina to maintain his carefully constructed façade of humorless stoicism. But it was  worth it. No one would ever suspect laugh-challenged Aaron Hotchner of masterminding punk-attacks; nor of pulling any strings behind the scenes.

He licked his lips. “We can still stop at the next town and split up, Morgan. You can go home and tend to…whatever this is…and I’ll go on to Richmond.”

“Uh-uh. Nope.” Morgan grunted his response, then puffed out a frustrated breath. “I just want my dog back home where he belongs. I can take care of the rest later.”

Hotch’s eyes tilted up.

Enter the fox.

“Where do you think Clooney is?”

“Reid. Emily’s got that cat. She wouldn’t do anything to piss off Sergio. Gotta be at Reid’s.”

“Well, then…how about I call in a favor or two?”

Morgan glanced at him. “What kind of favor?”

Hotch shrugged. “The kind that shows up at someone’s door, banging and shouting. The kind that brings a fake warrant…and cuffs…and uses them.”

A few beats passed as a grin made its slow way across Morgan’s face. Not quite as vulpine as Hotch’s…but close. He gave his boss a sly look. “You’d do that?”

“Like I said. You’re a good friend, Morgan.” Hotch pulled out his own phone, calling up the list of contacts.

“And one good turn deserves another. Just don’t mention this, okay?”

Morgan’s deep chuckle rumbled forth, continuing through Hotch’s call…and making sporadic appearances all the way to the Richmond, VA exit.


	119. Visitors at Dusk

“So this guy stole someone’s dog? And Hotchner wants us to arrest him?”

“Kind of.” Kenneth Silvado shook his head at what he considered the hidden underbelly of FBI agents. Especially Aaron Hotchner. So serious. So professional. But scrape the surface and there was a frat boy waiting to escape. And in Hotchner’s case, a very crafty, very devious frat boy indeed.

Ken sighed. “It’s a long story, but they all know each other. I guess they’ve been involved in a prank war, and my buddy wants to make a strike.”

Dan Radner shrugged, scratching his neck. “Slow night. I guess it’s okay. But if a call comes in, the jig’s up.”

“Of course.” Ken allowed himself a small grin. He was coming in on it mid-stream, but based on Hotch’s instructions and descriptions of the personalities involved, he was looking forward to the next half hour or so.

His co-worker cast him a sidelong glance. “You must owe this Hotchner dude big time.”

“I do. He worked SWAT a while back. Took out a guy who had me in his sights. I didn’t even know.”

Officer Radner sucked in his breath. “Got it.” That kind of debt was never fully repayable. But universally understandable. “So, any limits on this thing?”

Ken Silvado chuckled. “Yeah. If the guy gets teary, we cave. And the dog goes to someone named Sandusky. He’s waiting for us at the dog’s apartment building.”

“What about the woman?”

Ken lifted the brim of his hat, readjusting it; a habit he had when he was perplexed. “Not sure I get it, but Hotchner said _we_ could cave on her when _we_ start crying.”

Radner paused outside the door of his squad car, concerned eyes meeting his partner’s. “Let’s do the guy first.”

“Agreed. Guy and dog. Then…the woman.”

“Maybe. But if Hotchner’s wary of her…”

Ken brightened. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and she won’t be home.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Reid dropped the book he’d been reading when the pounding on his door began.

Clooney sprang to his feet, ears cocked, brow furrowed…aimed at the sudden noise.

“Spencer Reid? Quantico PD! Open up!”

Fumbling his way out of his chair, Reid stumbled to the door, heart throbbing almost as hard as the fist still pummeling, demanding admittance. _Oh, God! Something must’ve happened! Someone must be hurt! Mom?!_

Checking the peephole only long enough to get the harried impression of dark uniforms… _Two of them!! What **is** this?!?_...he opened the door to find a badge shoved in his face. The paper that flapped at him from another hand was accompanied by a growling, bass voice.

“Search warrant. Step aside.”

“What? But…I… _What_??”

Ken Silvado almost called a stop to the charade right then. This man with the large, amber eyes staring out at him, brimming with innocent confusion, was the least criminal person he’d ever seen…aside from his four-year-old daughter, that is. What’s more, the boy looked downright fragile.

Sensing his partner’s hesitation, Dan Radner pushed forward. “We’re looking for…” His eyes fixed on Clooney, still standing beside the chair in which Reid had been so comfortable mere moments before. “That’s it. That’s the dog that was stolen.” He shook his head, pulling handcuffs from his back pocket with a nerve-jangling flash and snap. “You’re in trouble now, son.”

“But I…Wait!...There’s been a mistake!...I didn’t steal him!”

Ken had recovered from seeing this gentle string bean Hotchner wanted taken through the paces of arrest. He stepped behind Reid where he wouldn’t have to look at the man’s eyes. “Spencer Reid, you have the right to remain silent…”

As the Mirandizing continued, Radner approached Clooney, holding out his hand. Had Spencer been less flustered he might have noticed the officer proffering a biscuit to the dog. His keen mind might have grown suspicious at such an uncharacteristic action. Biscuits weren’t standard officer issue. But he was too upset at the feel of cuffs around his bony wrists to see such details.

Radner scooped up a compliant Clooney, happily chewing on yet another treat in a weekend filled with them, and headed for the door.

“ _Wait_!! What are you doing? Where are you taking him?!?” Reid tried to pull away from the officer standing behind him. If he hadn’t been so concerned at the sight of Morgan’s dog being spirited away, he might have noticed how he himself was being restrained with the utmost care. But he didn’t.

Ken gave his ‘prisoner’ a light shake. “Never mind. It’s not your dog.” He raised his voice to his partner as the man passed into the hallway. “You know what to do with him, Dan?”

“Yep. I’ll take care of him.”

Beside himself, Reid struggled in vain to follow. “NO! Where are you taking him?! Stop! _Please_!!!”

Another shake from his captor. “Quiet, son. You’ve got enough trouble of your own. That dog’s evidence. Lucky for him. Otherwise, we’d impound him. Now…do you understand your rights?”

Reid might have saved himself right then, if he’d let the tears of frustration and concern for Clooney fall. But he blinked them back, telling himself he had to be strong and do all he could to make sure Morgan’s dog wasn’t harmed or mishandled. Errant images flashed through his mind: Clooney sent to the wrong place by mistake…a pound…either adopted by strangers or euthanized…never to be seen again.

It was hard, but Reid pulled on every ounce of self-control. For Clooney’s sake.

As Ken hustled the boy down to his car, he saw emotion, but no crying. _Guess the kid’s tougher than Hotchner thought. Okay…next stop: a nice waiting cell. By the time I get him locked up, the dog should be home safe and sound. Then, we can go for the woman._

 

xxxxxxx

 

She knew she shouldn’t do it.

But she couldn’t help herself.

 _It’s typical unsub behavior, you twit!_...and then, the _other_ voice, the one she favored, chimed in… _But it was a beautiful job. Just one more look. Just one…_

Prentiss pulled up to the crime scene, scanning the street for any signs of Morgan’s return. It was Sunday evening. She knew Morgan and Hotch planned on being back in the office Monday morning. Their road trip should be almost over. She wished she’d taken photos of her and Reid’s handiwork in Morgan’s apartment. Now, she wanted to gloat over the product of her own twisted genius. She checked the street again. She opened the car door. One leg out…she froze.

A squad car pulled up before Morgan’s building. Double parked, lights flashing, a uniformed officer clambered out. Prentiss watched him bend, reaching into the back. When he straightened, she gasped.

_Clooney?! What the…?_

Cop and dog ascended the few steps to the front door. After pressing one of the buttons that sent a raucous buzz to tenants, notifying them of a visitor, a man…not Morgan…came to the door. Nods and smiles were exchanged before Clooney disappeared into the building, wagging all the way.

Prentiss was baffled. And annoyed when her phone shrilled at her. Frowning, she almost ignored it, but a quick glance changed her mind. Reid was calling. A frisson of concern shivered over her. If Reid was hurt or had been in an accident…but why would someone be returning Clooney? Police didn’t do that…

…Prenitss’ eyes narrowed. One side of her lips twitched in a crooked grin. She wasn’t sure of the details, but she was _damn_ certain that Morgan knew his dog was missing…and knew exactly where to find him.

Chuckling, she took the call.

“Hey, Reid…”

“PRENTISS!! PRENTISS!! They took Clooney! Oh, God, Emily, you have to find him! They…”

“Jeez, Reid. Slow down! Where are you?” She watched the squad car move away into the night…Clooney-less.

Spencer sounded as though he would hyperventilate. Or already had and was up for an encore. “I’m in _jail_ , Emily! They arrested me! And they _took_ _Clooney_! You have to find him! They might…”

“REID! Stop!” The breathless tirade on the other end paused, more from hearing Prentiss’ incongruous laughter than her command. “Calm down. Clooney’s fine. I’m out front of Morgan’s place and I just saw a squad car bring him home. He’s _fine_.”

“But…” Spencer was panting with anxiety. “But…wha…? He’s okay?”

“We’ve been busted, Reid.” She couldn’t keep the chuckle from returning. “Well… _you_ more than me, but I’m thinking Morgan found out somehow and sent some of his old cop buddies after us.”

Stunned silence from the other side, but Prentiss could hear noise and bustle that told her Reid was indeed at a precinct headquarters. She shook her head in admiration for Morgan’s carefully crafted revenge.

“Look, they’re probably at my place right now trying to pull the same stunt. So…” She turned the key, revving her engine a few times in sheer, gleeful appreciation of being involved in such an elaborate piece of payback. “…so I’ll come down and get you. Maybe I could stay on your couch tonight? In case Morgan’s friends don’t know when to quit?”

“Uh…yeah…sure…” Reid’s breathing was returning to normal, but his voice was still a bit squeaky. “You’re _sure_ , Emily? Clooney’s okay and this is all a…a _joke_?”

“I’m sure.”

“This wasn’t even my idea!” He gave a forlorn, little snuffle. “Not fair.”

“I know. How ‘bout I take you out for a nice dinner to make up for it? Anywhere you want.”

Mournful and low for the injustice of it all…“You don’t have to do that.”

Prentiss sighed. “Y-e-a-h, I kinda do, Reid. Morgan’s due back any time now. I think it’d be best if neither of us was at home for a few hours.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan had hoped to stop in and introduce Hotch to Felicia’s grandson. But the extended stay in Tazewell had eaten into their time.

And Hotch looked tired.

So he shelved the idea of bringing the family legend of Wolfie-Wild to life, and drove straight to the nursing home. He cut the engine, giving Hotch a long, speculative look as he stared about at the too-cheerful grounds.

“You want me to go with you, Hotch?...Hotch?”

“What? Oh. Uh, no. No.”

Morgan didn’t like the distracted, glassy look that had descended over his leader’s face. “You sure?”

Hotch nodded. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

The ‘I’m okay’ mantra set off Morgan’s internal alarms. “Well…I’m right out here. And you don’t have to do any of this, if you need more time, man.”

Hotch’s answer was to open the SUV door. Getting out, he looked back at Morgan. “I might be a while…or not…I just don’t know.”

Morgan’s brows were knit with concern. “That’s okay. Just remember I’m here.”

“Morgan?”

“Hmmm?”

“Thanks. For all this. For everything.”

The agent’s grin shone white. “Any time, Boss-man.”

The grin faded as Morgan watched his friend walk into the home’s front doors. He knew it was just his imagination, but the figure of his Unit Chief seemed to diminish. There was something slight and vulnerable and fragile about it as Hotch went to pay his respects to his long-lost Felicia.


	120. A Soul at Peace

Rebecca Yarrow reflected that, although she loved being a nurse, at times it broke her heart.

She could deal with the fact that her patients would never recover. She could bear witness to how Alzheimer’s eroded once vital personalities, robbing them of their sparkle, rendering them angry, frightened, embattled people whose only escape was death; people who she hoped didn’t know the legacy they left…at first…would be one of weary bitterness. But Rebecca was a great believer in the power of time. She clung to the certainty that after an interval, the loved ones left behind would remember the good times…the pre-Alzheimer times…most of all. There _would_ be healing.

Still, while it gripped their loved ones, the worst part of this disease was what it did to the survivors; the silent, untreated victims. And here came one now. He had the look.

Uncertain and slim, the man hesitated one step inside the door. Eyes that held too much…Rebecca wasn’t sure which emotion; horror, fear, grief…all were gathered there, waiting to spill over. He saw her, was drawn to the official status her uniform conveyed. He didn’t move. But his eyes stopped scanning, fastening on her. And she could finally read them.

_Haunted. He’s haunted and he’s looking for someone to help him find a way out of some nightmare. God, I hope he’s not looking for answers here. It’s the least likely place to find them._

Rebecca shelved her private reservations, approaching him with a professional smile. Sometimes she thought these lost and grieving souls who visited needed kindness more than the patients they came to see. She was surprised to find that he was actually quite tall. Her first impression had been that he was small and slight.

_That’s what Alzheimer’s does to them…the silent victims. It steals something substantial and makes them seem less. But it’s only sorrow. Like a cloak that, hopefully, they’ll shed in time._

He watched her every step as she drew near. His eyes were more than haunted; they were unsettling. And Rebecca wished she could make some of the bruised shadows melt out of them. So she spoke with soft, quiet cadences, as though he were a feral creature, poised to run.

“Hi…and welcome. You look a little lost, sir. Can I help you?”

There was a light sheen of perspiration on his upper lip. _Nerves. This is his first time seeing an Alzheimer’s patient who means something to him. I’m sure of it._

He licked his lips, blinking. His first attempt to speak was unsuccessful. He had to look away and clear his throat before he could harness the necessary words. “I’m looking for a patient of yours.” The eyes were begging.

_He wants me to tell him whoever it is has left. They’re miraculously better and he can find them in some happier place._

He swallowed. “Felicia Davenport?”

Rebecca’s brows flicked her surprise, but only for a moment. Usually, this level of distress meant the visitor was a relative. A close one, too. But there was no way this pale, pale, slender man was near blood kin to Mrs. Davenport.

_But she must be someone he loves very much. And he hasn’t seen her in Alzheimer’s grip. Yet._

The best she could do was prepare him, and try to put an optimistic spin on how the patient spent her days.

“Visiting hours are usually over by seven, but we make allowances for people’s schedules. I believe Mrs. Davenport’s still watching the sunset. She seems to enjoy that.” _She stares out the window and no one knows if she’s aware of anything anymore._ “Come with me, Mr…?”

“Hotchner. Aaron Hotchner.”

He thought he was doing a creditable job of masking his emotions. He tried to control the convulsive swallowing, the sound of which resonated in his own ears. He hoped this nurse couldn’t hear it.

She could.

She put a hand on his shoulder, something she didn’t ordinarily do with strangers. “Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Hotchner? Would you like to sit down for a moment?”

He looked toward the floor, squeezing his eyes shut. Rebecca thought he seemed ashamed, as though caring for someone so deeply was a weakness. His voice, when it came, was rough.

“I’m sorry. I…” The swallowing again. “I’m sorry.”

And Rebecca wouldn’t tolerate that. She stood in front of him, trying to catch his downcast eyes. She had to grip his upper arms to make him look up.

“What are you sorry for? Loving someone? Feeling anger and grief and despair at what’s happened to her? Why is that _your_ fault?” She saw a desperate kind of hope in the dark depths watching her; asking her to convince him. _He’s thinking: Don’t stop. Please don’t stop._

But there was only one lesson this man needed. Rebecca ran her palms up and down his arms, hoping the gesture imparted her sincerity and concern. “Never apologize for beautiful things, Mr. Hotchner…no matter how sad they are. And loving someone so much it makes you hurt…is a _very_ beautiful thing. And, ultimately, a very, very sad thing.”

If he’d been a weaker man, he might have cried. But this was someone formed of steel and sinew. She could feel it when she touched him. But the eyes…the eyes…the eyes… Dark. And scared. And hopeful. All that, and yet, all he did was nod.

 

xxxxxxx

 

She’d given him a glass of water and coaxed him to drink it.

And then she brought him to Felicia Davenport’s room.

Hotch froze in the doorway, seeing the form of a large woman from the back, sitting in a wheelchair. His eyes shifted to the side, intensely aware of the nurse standing a step behind him. Her voice was pitched to encourage, to calm.

“She hasn’t responded to anything for a very, very long time, Mr. Hotchner.”

He felt her hand caress his shoulder blade; a parting gesture. “If you need me, I’ll be at the front desk.”

Hotch heard the soft retreat of her thick-soled, nurse’s shoes.

He stood. And stared. And finally moved forward. There were other chairs in the room; evidence of visitors. Eyes averted, he pulled one close…but not too…and sat.

After a moment, he looked up.

At first, it was hard to remember. He couldn’t reconcile the impassive face aimed toward the window and the sky beyond with the woman who’d cradled him, consoled him, comforted him…loved him. But as the sky darkened and shadows grew, the lines and ravages of time and life faded. And Hotch saw Felicia.

Bereft of words, he studied her at first. She didn’t move. Hardly blinked. A statue, a monument of the woman he’d known… _And caused so much trouble…And forgotten until she surfaced in a dream…She deserves so much better than this._

He pressed his lips into a thin line, gathering himself. It had been so long, he didn’t see how she could possibly recognize him…hear him in the low, soft, rumble of his grown-up voice. But he tried.

“Felicia. Felicia?” He felt his stomach muscles contract, signaling the desire to sob. But he quelled it, concentrating on breathing past the impulse. He chewed on his bottom lip, studying her face for reaction…any reaction.

Nothing.

Despite his efforts, the breath he drew was ragged.

“It’s me. It’s Aaron… and I found you... and I’m so sorry.” He felt his eyes filling, and rubbed away the moisture with a brusque, impatient hand. “Please, Felicia…please look at me…It’s Aaron…Remember?... _Please_ remember.”

Minutes passed while he waited, eyes fastened on her, pleading for something…anything. Hungry for her after so many years. Hungry for the kind of comfort she’d given. And realizing it for the first time. Feeling a little ashamed of being a grown man who still wanted someone to cuddle him, to tell him everything would be fine. Wondering if there would always be that empty place inside him that wanted to be held, and warmed.

“Please, Felicia…I still need you…Please…”

He scooted his chair closer. Leaning forward, he placed one hand on top of hers, folded in her lap. His words came out on a long, shaky sigh.

“Felicia…Please…?” Swallowing, he sniffed and wiped the back of a hand against his nose, feeling like a child whose manners needed polishing.

“I’m sorry about everything that happened to you because of me. I never knew…” He bowed his head, telling himself to get control. This woman deserved to see that her sacrifice had been worth it; that it had helped him grow into a man…not this sniveling, tearful, sorrowful creature. He found the place of strength inside and drew from it. A deep breath. A steadier voice.

“If I’d known what had happened to you, I’d have searched until I found you. But I didn’t. And I’m not sure what made me forget so much, but I’ve got it back now. And I remember. Everything.”

He couldn’t stand that her eyes remained fixed, gazing out the darkening window. He wanted to catch them, to look into them. He slid to his knees beside her chair. Looking up at the still face…so remote…he tried to find some spark, some sign.

Nothing.

He glanced around at the door. No one was watching. It was past normal visiting hours. The silence made him feel as though no other people existed in the world. It had been such a draining weekend. He was so tired. He decided it was okay to let go…just a little…be a child one last time…no one would know…

He breathed out a last “I’m sorry, Felicia” and, closing his eyes, rested his head in the large, expansive lap.

“I’m sorry. I love you.”

Exhausted and at the end of his journey, Hotch was half asleep when the large, warm hands moved. Strong and sure, they pulled him closer. The arms engulfed him, rocked him.

Soft lips pressed against his hair. He drifted off to a low hum that flowed seamlessly into words, wrapping around his heart, finding the empty place inside him, filling it at last…at long, long last…

 

‘Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry

‘Go to sleep my little baby

‘When you wake, you shall have

‘All the pretty, little horses..

‘Blacks and bays

‘Dapples and grays…

‘All the pretty little horses…

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan glanced at his watch.

It was getting late. If they wanted to reach Quantico and still get a few hours’ sleep before reporting to work Monday, they needed to leave soon. As much as he didn’t want to intrude, it was time to get Hotch…or at least check up on him.

He left the padded comfort of the driver’s seat, making his way to the nursing home’s front entry. Inside, the lights had been dimmed; a sign that the place had geared down for the night. But someone was always on duty at the front desk.

Morgan approached, nodding a greeting at the nurse’s inquisitive look for such a late visitor.

“Evening, Ma’am.”

“Sir.” Rebecca’s tone was polite, but curious. She’d thought Mr. Hotchner would be the only after-hours guest.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for my friend. He came to see Felicia Davenport?”

“Ahhh, yes.” The pieces fell into place along with the return of her professional smile. _Now **this** one looks like a possible relative…_ “He’s with her now. This way…” She led Morgan down the hall, deeper into the silent building.

Or _almost_ silent.

Someone was singing. Soft and minor and haunting.

They stopped in the doorway of Felicia’s room. Side by side they stood, watching.

Until Morgan reached in, pulling the door closed, leaving Aaron and Felicia together for as long as they needed, for as long as it took for sleep and song to finally heal a little boy’s soul.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rebecca Yarrow loved being a nurse.

At times it could be heartbreaking. But there were moments…even here …even now …when her spirit soared in the presence of what love could accomplish.

 

 

 

link to 'All The Pretty Little Horses':                       

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=AWoPsyY8CZY

 


	121. Homeward Bound

Morgan had spent the better part of the night standing vigil.

Once the singing stopped, he’d eased Felicia’s door open and considered the tableau she and Hotch made among the shadows. The woman’s hands had still rested on Hotch’s back and shoulders, doling out the occasional caress. She continued to rock him. So Morgan retreated, standing his ground when the nurse padded up, concerned about putting Mrs. Davenport to bed for the night.

“Not yet, Ma’am. Please.” Morgan’s sincerity infused his words, darkened his eyes.

Rebecca Yarrow, having seen what she considered one miracle already, had no objection to letting her patient remain close to the man whose presence had elicited a response when no one and nothing else could. She had two cots moved into Felicia’s room, trusting Mr. Hotchner’s friend to know if use of either was warranted. With a gracious nod she had returned to her post.

A few hours later, when Felicia’s arms dropped and a soft, wheezing snore issued from her lips, Morgan alerted the nurse. He would have left them undisturbed, but he was sure Hotch’s crumpled posture, legs bent under him as he leaned against Felicia’s chair, head and shoulders in her lap, would result in some painful, morning stiffness. So, as Rebecca put her patient to bed, Morgan transferred Hotch to one of the cots, removing his shoes and belt in the process.

After pulling a blanket over the still form, Morgan leaned in, studying his boss’ face. He’d done so numerous times before; on the jet, in hotels, and the few instances when he’d discovered Hotch sleeping in his office, loathe to go home when there were victims whose lives still hung in the balance. After Haley’s death he’d sat with Hotch a few times, watching pain and grief trace silent passage across his features.

Minutes passed. Hotch shifted, lips moving soundlessly, conducting some dream-state conversation. At last, Morgan smiled. It would take someone who knew him well to see the difference in the sleeping man’s face. Derek was familiar with every line, every plane. Over the years he’d added the topography of Hotch’s visage to the store of knowledge he kept that contributed to his private profiles of each of his team’s members.

Hotch’s had changed. Not physically; rather, qualitatively. There was a new smoothness…a peacefulness. The little lines that usually appeared between his brows, even in sleep, had eased. They hadn’t cleared entirely, but then…this was Hotch…his mind would always be racing with worry and concern.

Still, it was Morgan’s belief that more of it would be directed outward now. The self-doubt and self-criticism wouldn’t find footholds in Hotch as easily as they had in the past.

Feeling a little like Rossi in the fatherly role he sometimes assumed toward the Unit Chief, Morgan tucked the blanket closer, lingering to give one shoulder an affectionate press.

He sighed. _Doesn’t look like we’ll get home tonight, Boss-man. And Clooney’s just gonna hafta rough it in whatever-the-hell Reid and Prentiss did to my crib. At least Shane’ll make sure he’s fed and walked._

Visions of his dog romping among disco décor danced in his head as Morgan stepped into the hall to let Rossi know the team would still be down two members tomorrow morning.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“Hey, man. ‘S me.”

“Derek?” Rossi rolled to his side, phone clutched in one hand, rubbing the other over his face as he tried to focus on the glowing digits of his bedside clock. He’d turned in right after putting Jack to bed, still wondering if Morgan would bring Hotch to claim the boy. There’d been no word. But tomorrow was a work day for Rossi and a school day for Jack. He thought a good night’s rest was in order for both of them.

The older man had confidence in Morgan’s ability to keep Hotch safe from both physical and emotional threats. And he had a feeling whatever the two agents were doing should be allowed to run its course. So he didn’t check up on them, although he’d assured Jack that Daddy would be back soon.

Rossi was prepared to take the child to school…Raspberry Leopard ‘tattoo’ covered in deference to the principal’s zero tolerance policy for lurid gang insignia…if Hotch was waylaid.

Still, the sudden call awakened him to a state of alarm. “Where are you? Are you guys okay?”

“Yes…Yes, we are.” There was something in Morgan’s tone that Rossi’d heard only on one or two other rare occasions.

_Something happened. Something good. He sounds…peaceful…almost euphoric, maybe?_

“D-e-r-e-k? Something you want to tell me?”

“Just that we might not make it in tomorrow. But, Rossi…” The resonant note in the agent’s voice deepened. “…it’s worth it. M’man’s doin’ good. Can you cover for us?”

“Sure. Of course. But…” Rossi swung his legs around, bringing himself to a sitting position on the bed’s edge. “…care to enlighten me?”

“I don’t know that I can, man. It’s just…” Morgan paused, groping for the right words to portray something that defied description. “…It’s been a hell of a journey; and a fast one, but I think it worked out better than anyone could’ve predicted. Hotch’s good. Really. For maybe the first time. A deep-inside kind of good.”

“Well…” Rossi’s smile warmed the connection between them. “Then take all the time you need. I’ll make sure it’s alright.”

“Thanks, man.”

After the call ended, Rossi’s smile widened. He had a feeling some pieces had fallen into place; some connections had closed.

Some ghosts had faded.

And they wouldn’t be haunting Aaron any more.

_As long as we remind him every once in a while that they can only return if he lets them._

xxxxxxx

 

Reid’s couch was one of the least comfortable places Prentiss had ever tried to sleep.

_What?....did he stuff the cushions with bricks? How can this be so lumpy?_

But she kept her complaints to herself. She still felt a twinge of guilt over Reid’s misadventures earlier in the evening down at precinct headquarters. But, being Prentiss, she couldn’t help feeling a little thrill at it all, too.

When she’d arrived, eyes snapping with dark determination, unsure of just how far Morgan’s police-buddy accomplices were going to push the fake arrest scenario, she’d found them sympathetic and cooperative to an unexpected degree.

Apparently, the officers who’d made the collar hadn’t stuck around. Emily guessed they were pounding on her door, sending Sergio into a hissing fit of feline annoyance. But their station-bound colleagues seemed almost relieved that someone had come to retrieve the hapless dog-napper.

When Prentiss went back to the holding cell to tell Reid his ordeal was over, she understood why.

The young agent was folded up like an accordion in the corner farthest away from…everything. Crouched on the hard edge of a bench, arms wrapped around knees pulled tight to his chest, face buried against bony kneecaps…Reid was the most alone-looking person she thought she’d ever seen.

Even the assorted miscreants sharing the cell were shaking their heads, sending compassionate looks his way, muttering about innocents being misled by ‘bad seeds’ and ‘predators.’ Prentiss could tell by the looks she garnered that Reid’s cellmates thought she fit the bill. They recognized the bad girl lurking just below the surface.

She was glad when, upon hearing her call his name, Spencer flung himself against the bars, relief and joy evident in every angular line of his body. She couldn’t have borne it if he’d blamed her, turned his back on her, or huddled even farther into himself in an effort to steer clear of The Bad Seed.

But it _really_ didn’t help when Reid’s first words to her were ‘You’re _sure_ Clooney’s okay?’ Prentiss heard a few anonymous ‘awwwww’s. Feeling like a lesser breed of child molester, she hurried her friend out; away from the disapproving looks burning into her back, and the muted comments directed at Reid, advising him to show greater wisdom when picking his accomplices.

Once outside in the clean, night air, Reid had straightened, an almost fierce look simmering deep in the amber depths of his eyes. It alarmed Prentiss.

“Reid, I’m really sorry. I don’t know how Morgan found out, or why he went after you first…but…I’m really, _really_ sorry.”

“Not your fault, Emily.” Reid’s stride was long; she had trouble keeping up with his determined gait. “But Morgan’s _not_ getting away with this.”

Prentiss’ brows rose. “What do you mean? Reid?” She pulled on his arm, slowing him down. “Don’t forget, Morgan hasn’t even seen what we did to his place yet. This whole arrest thing was payback for something _sight-unseen_. You sure you wanna push him even farther?”

Reid had paused, fixing her with what she thought of as his ‘mad genius’ stare. “Morgan wants to call in his old buddies from his days as a cop to do his dirty work? Well, I just might have to call in some of mine.

“And when it comes to revenge, Emily…cops are no match for geeks.”

 

xxxxxxx

 

Morgan had managed a quick nap on the cot next to the one occupied by Hotch.

When he woke, light was edging its way past the blinds that had been drawn over the windows. He sat up, noticing that Felicia was gone. Hotch was still asleep, still peaceful. Morgan grinned; he’d never known the man to take this much rest in one session.

 _He must’ve been really tired. Emotionally as well as physically. But…_ He stretched the kinks out of his neck. _…it’s time to head home._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch woke with a deep sigh.

He kept his eyes closed, savoring the inexplicable, warm feeling running through him. His chest usually tightened within seconds of waking, anticipating a day of tense situations and demanding decisions. But this morning…it didn’t.

He felt more rested than he could ever remember. He took another breath, expanding his lungs to their fullest, and…smiled. Then chuckled.

“Morgan?...”

Hotch opened his eyes to see a dark-skinned hand steadying a steaming cup of coffee in the center of his chest. _Well, that accounts for some of the warm feeling._

“Hey, man. Drink up. We gotta be leaving soon.” Morgan grinned down at his boss from the perch he’d taken on the edge of the other cot. “How’d you sleep?”

Hotch rolled to a sitting position, taking the cup Morgan proffered. “Really well.” He frowned. “Dreamt…something…but can’t remember what.” He took an appreciative sip of the coffee, nodding toward the other cot. “You sleep there?”

“Yeah. Coupla hours. But you were really out, man.”

Hotch nodded, then straightened, sudden alarm replacing the peace of a moment ago. “Where’s Felicia? Where is she? Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened…well, that’s not quite true.” Morgan settled back to enjoy what he was about to tell his boss. “She came around for you, Hotch. She sang to you…that lullaby about horses.” He could feel an unwelcome lump forming in his throat. “Nurse said she’s never done that before. I think she was waiting for you, man.”

“Where’s she now?” Hotch couldn’t remember falling asleep. His last conscious thought had been that he was too late for Felicia…just as he’d been too late to clear the air with his father…just as he’d been too late for Haley… “Where is she?”

“Relax, man. They take her to another room on the other side of the building in the mornings. Seems she watches the sky a lot. So they give her the sunrise and then move her back here for the sunset. She’s fine, Hotch. She sang to you. She remembered you. And…” Morgan tried to disguise his own emotions with a sip of his coffee. “…she loves you, Boss-man. That’s for sure.”

Hotch nodded, sensing the truth in Morgan’s words. “Okay.” He stood, stretching. “We need to be on our way. We’re late. But I need to say ‘goodbye’ to Felicia first.”

Standing, Morgan drained his cup. “Rossi’s covering for us, so take your time.”

As they walked down the hall, Derek gave Hotch a considering look, catching the Unit Chief’s eye.”

Hotch faltered. “What?”

Morgan’s grin stretched wide as he draped an arm over his friend’s shoulders, giving the man a gentle shake.

“For once, Hotch…you don’t look like hell in the morning.”

 

 


	122. The Smile Spectrum

Rebecca Yarrow had gone off-duty, but not before she’d passed along the tale of Mrs. Davenport and the intense, young man she’d sung to his rest.

As Hotch and Morgan traversed the building, headed toward the area where they’d been told Felicia watched the sun rise, eyes followed them. Those who could, without deserting their duties, trailed after the two agents, interested to see if there would be a reenactment of the previous night’s events.

Would the patient rally once again for her visitor?

Despite their curiosity, staff members maintained a respectful distance, acknowledging the sanctity and depth of the relationship between the old lady and the dark-haired man.

The agents reached the day room, pausing at the sight of Felicia’s chair drawn up to the window. The nurse in attendance was clearing a breakfast tray. She glanced at Hotch and Morgan, doing a small, double-take when she realized who they must be.

“Gentlemen.” She nodded, beaming a smile so genuine it warmed her eyes. Carrying her tray with its burden of breakfast leftovers, she joined the handful of others loitering by the door, hoping to see…anything.

More aware of their audience, Morgan hung back a few steps, giving his boss some privacy as he approached the wheelchair facing the window. Oblivious to the watchers, Hotch only had eyes for the woman who’d seen him through some of the worst parts of his life.

“Felicia?” His voice was uncertain despite all the assurances that last night some sort of miracle had occurred between them. Hotch crouched to the side and slightly in front of her, looking up into the placid face.

“Felicia? It’s me…Aaron. Can you talk to me? Please?”

Nothing. No response.

Hotch’s heart sank; he began to doubt the tale of being sung to sleep. _Maybe everyone just wanted to see it so badly they misinterpreted something else. Maybe she has no idea I’m here…or was **ever** here._

He took one limp hand between his own. “Felicia, I have to leave.” His eyes flicked to the side, hearing the quiet murmur of the spectators. He lowered his voice. “I’ll try to come back to visit, but my job makes it hard to keep to any schedule.”

Standing, Hotch leaned in. Eyes closed, he kissed the soft, dry, wrinkled cheek. “Thank you for my life, Felicia.,” he whispered. “You were right. It got better. I’m loving it now; more and more each day. And I love you.”

With a dejected sigh, Hotch began to pull away when a large, worn hand rose, pressing him, holding him cheek to cheek. Stunning him. He froze; not daring to move. If this was a spell, he didn’t want it to break. If it wasn’t real, he didn’t want to know.

But the susurration, like a collective drawing of breath from the onlookers, told him it wasn’t his imagination working to supply what he so desperately wanted. It was real. He closed his eyes, feeling again the loosening in his chest that was so pleasant, but so rare in his tense life.

It didn’t last very long.

When Hotch felt himself released, he turned to stare at the face inches from his own.

No expression. No response. At least he didn’t think so at first, but several breathy ‘ahhhhh’s made him wonder if he was missing something important.

“Felicia?”

Nothing.

Somehow Hotch knew there would be no more miracles. He’d been given all Felicia had to offer. Swallowing, he straightened, startled to feel a small, feminine hand on his arm. He looked down, recognizing the nurse who had been handling Felicia’s breakfast service.

“I didn’t quite believe them, sir.” Her voice was as light, as confidential, as if they’d been conversing in a library. But Hotch didn’t understand. He lifted one brow, inviting explanation.

“About Mrs. Davenport.” The girl squeezed where she gripped his arm. “That you’d reached her… _changed_ her. I didn’t believe it.”

Hotch looked at the beloved, but impassive face of the woman who’d given him food and love and, above all, hope. Felicia’s eyes were fixed on the sky as he’d been told was her wont. She remained silent; impressive, but in the end only the remnant of what Aaron would always consider a truly great lady.

He looked at the earnest face of the little nurse. “I’m sorry. I don’t understa….”

Before he could finish his sentence, eyes glistening, she gave him a quick, one-armed hug, spontaneous and unexpected enough to cut him off.

“The _smile_ , sir. She’s _smiling_!” Showing one of her own, warm and joyful, the nurse beamed at this strange visitor. “Mrs. Davenport hasn’t smiled for years. But now... You _did_ it, sir. You made her happy. She’s smiling…”

 

xxxxxxx

 

The drive back to Quantico was quiet.

Hotch was thoughtful, but Morgan sensed no conflict within the man. He seemed peaceful, occasionally even letting a faint smile touch his lips. As they drew closer to their destination, a few, desultory comments were exchanged.

“So, you want me to take you to Rossi’s or your place?”

Hotch considered for a moment. “Rossi’s first? So I can pick up Jack’s stuff. That way I can bring him straight home when I get him from school in…” He checked his watch. “…a few hours.” He glanced at Morgan. “That okay?”

“You got it, man.” Derek returned his eyes to the road, savoring the new, indefinable ease that existed between him and his boss.

“Morgan?”

“Hmmm?”

“I just wanna say…” Hotch paused. _How do you thank someone for sticking with you when you’re a mess; for knowing what you need and then going with you to find it?_ He shook his head. _There might be words, but I don’t have them._ “I want you to know…”

“Shhhhh… ‘Sokay, Boss-man. I get you.”

“Yeah. You do.” _In some ways, more than anyone else I know…even Dave._

Morgan’s grin as he glanced at his passenger stayed with him the rest of the way home.

 

xxxxxxx

 

The SUV pulled into Rossi’s trim, elegantly landscaped drive, coming to a stop opposite the ornate front door.

“You wanna come in?” Hotch had already exited, one hand resting on the car door.

“N-a-a-h.” Morgan drawled his response, sounding as though he was sorry to be home where the freedom and unaccountability of the road no longer existed. “I think I’ll sit here and wonder what my place looks like now that Prentiss and Reid dipped it into a big, ol’, ugly trough of seventies slop.” He sighed. “You go on.”

Headed for the door, Hotch chuckled. He hadn’t had a chance to touch bases with his cop buddy, Ken Silvado, yet, but he was sure the man had taken his mission to bully the practical jokers seriously. The Unit Chief was looking forward to thanking Reid and Prentiss for holding down the fort while he was ill, and then, innocent and off-the-cuff, asking how their weekends had been.

_Prentiss won’t blink. But Reid…Reid’ll go all Chihuahua-eyed and stammer something unintelligible._

Hotch used his key to enter Rossi’s mansion, turning off the alarm system as he had a hundred times before.

He bounded up the stairs to the room where Jack had stayed during his illness, correctly assuming it was where Dave would have put the boy while Daddy was on his road trip. He snagged his son’s overnight backpack, checking around to be sure nothing important would be left behind.

Back down the stairs and Hotch would have been out the door, except for the ‘woof’ that came from the kitchen. _Mudgie, boy!_ It wasn’t a watchdog woof, nor a ‘help me’ woof. It was just a ‘hey…say hello why don’tcha’’ kind of dog-speak.

Hotch entered the room, to pay his respects and apologize for intruding on Mudge’s territory without Dave in attendance; also to make sure the pet door was unlatched, and to check if the dog needed his water freshened.

“How ya doin’, boy?” Hotch crouched down, ruffling the animal’s ears, and saw something… interesting.

A large cardboard container was shoved under the table where it wouldn’t obstruct foot traffic. Mudgie’s tail thumped against its side, producing a thick sound that let Aaron know the box was packed full of something.

“What’s this, Mudge? Mind if I take a look?” Aware he was snooping, Hotch promised himself, and the absent Dave, that he’d just take a quick peek. After all, curiosity was a prime trait in those who spent their lives investigating people, places, and motives.

But when he saw the contents, Hotch pulled the box out from its hiding place and began to sort through the wealth of items within…all stamped with Star-Spangled Fudge’s likeness.

Rossi had explained the truce, the gentleman’s agreement that had been struck between him and Marty. _No more dog-defamation…No more canine critiques._

Hotch hummed to himself as he selected a number of choice items from the stash. Opening Jack’s backpack, he stowed them with tidy efficiency.

By the time Hotch returned to where Morgan waited, his face had gone Full-On Fox.


	123. Sly Strategies

Reid had recovered from his ordeal at the hands of the Quantico PD.

In fact, he’d moved on…with the help of a geek squad bent on avenging one of their own.

The redecoration of Morgan’s apartment with Prentiss had taken all Saturday. The ‘arrest’ by what Reid just _knew_ were Derek’s old cop friends had been Saturday night.

The young genius had checked in with Rossi, knowing that Morgan and Hotch planned to return from their road trip either late Saturday or Sunday. When Rossi had divulged that they’d be delayed, Reid’s grin had shown positively wolfish. Almost like a mini-Hotch.

Reid licked his lips. Sunday would be devoted to enacting what he had christened Operation Derek’s Demise.

 

xxxxxxx

 

After taking Hotch home Monday afternoon, Morgan stood outside his apartment, resting his forehead against the door, preparing himself for what waited within.

He might have stood there for a longer time, but he really did miss Clooney whenever he was gone. Hugging the dog and seeing the deep joy in his pet’s eyes upon his return were things Morgan treasured. He resented that Prentiss and Reid had tainted this particular homecoming. Giving a vindictive, little sniff, he hoped their ‘arrest’ had been both unpleasant and stressful.

He hoped Hotch would get a firsthand account from his cop buddies about how it had gone down, but Morgan wouldn’t press the man for information. He’d agreed to hold the Unit Chief’s role in the charade in complete confidence. And he would never endanger the new camaraderie between them by betraying that trust.

 _Might as well get this over with._ He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped…into the past. And a tasteless, offensively-colored past at that. He was grateful that his neighbor, Shane, had forewarned him that his own belongings were stashed in the kitchen and bedrooms. That knowledge circumvented the panic Prentiss and Reid had no doubt intended he suffer.

Still, it was going to take all night to get his own furniture back in place. Then the paint job registered on his senses.

_Son of a…_

He’d have to repaint before he moved all his belongings back to their rightful positions.

Morgan wanted to hit something. The mirror ball caught his eye. With the grace, accuracy and strength of a professional boxer, he slammed his fist into the glittering, spinning monstrosity. It broke from the wire suspending it from the ceiling. Flying across the room, it shot through the archway to the kitchen where a resounding crash told Morgan the thing had likely taken out some of the dishes he’d left on the counter.

Deflated, the agent dropped to the floor. Sitting cross-legged, he pulled a bemused Clooney into his lap, taking comfort from the only other creature on the planet to have been victimized by the evil duo of Prentiss and Reid.

 _And this all started because I went on the road to look into Hotch’s past, leaving them to do a little more paperwork than usual._ Morgan shook his head. _Well…at least it ended with me getting the last word. Thanks to Hotch._

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hours later, having made a trip to his usual building supply store, Morgan was ready to repaint his home.

Resigned to the task, he sighed and decided to make the best of it. _Painting’s therapeutic. I’ll put on a little music and let the tunes lead me through. It won’t be so bad._

Morgan moved the stereo system that had once belonged to his father to the center of the living room. Slapping in a CD, he picked up a screwdriver and began prying open one of his newly purchased cans of paint…and stopped. Frowning, he turned toward the stereo, unable to process what he was hearing for a moment.

“Jingle Bells.” Barked by a pack of dogs.

Morgan shook his head, hoping to clear it of the surrealism of the situation. He checked the connections, making sure he’d set the old equipment up correctly. He had. He tried another CD.

“Deck the Halls.” Barked by a pack of dogs.

A sinking feeling took up residence in the pit of Morgan’s stomach. Suspicions began to ricochet inside his skull, setting off bright sparks of disbelieving rage. Several more random selections verified that his CDs had been tampered with…or perhaps the stereo itself had been altered and could offer nothing but canine Christmas carols.

Clooney’s enjoyment aside, Morgan did a masterful job of tamping down his anger. _This has Reid’s stink all over it. He’s dead. When I see him, he’s dead._ But in the meantime, the painting still needed to be done, and pleasant, accompanying diversion needed to be found. Morgan opted for other methods of playing music.

He tried everything, including disc player, ipod, internet streaming. Morgan’s musical existence was bounded by Yuletide doggie vocalizations.

Fuming with defeat, he decided to bag the music and go for something on TV. Maybe one of the ESPN channels. Fifteen minutes later, Morgan had gone from enraged to livid. Just as he could access no music other than the barking dogs’ holiday offerings, there was nothing available to him of a visual nature other than a very old Shirley Temple movie. “Heidi.”

Morgan could think of no time in his life when he would want to watch a puffy-cheeked, little Swiss girl romp through alpine meadows. When his alarm clock suddenly went off and barked “Good King Wenceslas” at him, he abandoned all thoughts of getting his home back to normal.

Snapping a leash onto Clooney, Morgan fled into the night.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Hotch had a lot to do in the few hours before he needed to pick Jack up from school. He had to move fast, but he needed some help, too.

“Garcia?”

“Sir?...Oh, Sir!! It’s you! How are you feeling? You’re coming back tomorrow, right?...Oh, Sir…”

He cut her off. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” Hotch didn’t want to be rude, but time was of the essence. “Garcia, I need your help.”

“Uh…well, sure, Sir…whatever you need.”

“Can you access a phone and send me a file with the pictures it has on it?”

Garcia’s voice preened with professional pride. “Quicker than you can say ‘hack,’ Sir! Whose phone?”

Hotch’s grin was fox-sly as he read off Dr. Martin Palmer’s number. “And, Penelope…could this remain a private matter between you and me?”

“Absolutely, Sir!”

Within minutes Hotch was in possession of the file. Seconds later, he had the images he wanted. Half an hour later, he was down at a Kinko’s Copy Center having flyers run off.

Full color flyers. Two different versions using the same depiction of Mudgie decked out in a lurid display of curly ribbons, pink tail proudly erect.

Within two hours, Hotch had run himself ragged, but had accomplished his task.

Rossi’s immediate neighborhood was papered with flyer version number one: beribboned Mudgie with the simple block lettering asking HAVE YOU SEEN THIS DOG?...YOU SHOULD!

Further out, flyer version number two was drawing attention that would plague Rossi for weeks to come. The same image of Mudge stared out, happy and parti-colored, but the lettering was different…cartoonishly inviting…the message diabolical. MAGIC MUDGIE! AVAILABLE FOR BIRTHDAY PARTIES…NO CHARGE! CALL: 703-555-6139.

Time ran out and Hotch had to go pick up his son. But on the way home he completed his undertaking to reinstate the war between Marty and Dave. It only took a few minutes for him to pull up to the doctor’s house, verify that he wasn’t home…and then leave a trail of Fudge-ware in all its vast variety, running from mailbox to welcome mat.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Monday night found various members of the BAU engaged in unaccustomed activities.

Morgan was walking off steam, Clooney in tow.

Reid was thanking his crew of minions, a smug smile in place.

Hotch was curled up with his son, feeling satisfied and safe, if a little tired.

And David Rossi was fielding call after call in a world that suddenly made no sense at all.

“No! Ma’am, I don’t care _what_ you read or _where_ you got your information! I do _NOT_ do birthday parties! And my dog is _NOT_ some kind of …of… _MAGIC_ _RIBBON_ _POODLE_!!” 


	124. Journey's End

“There’s only one reason you’re not dead right now.”

Reid stiffened. He thought he’d gotten lucky. He thought when he poked his nose around the corner that morning and didn’t see Morgan in the bullpen that the agent had taken another day off in order to set his apartment to rights. He was wrong.

_But it wasn’t all my doing!_

Where was Prentiss in all this?! She’d avoided the faux ‘arrest,’ and, although she’d had nothing to do with the rewiring that narrowed Morgan’s entertainment choices to barking dogs and/or Shirley Temple, she _was_ much more a driving force behind the entire, snowballing prank war than Reid. How did she get off scot-free?

_She’s slippery; she’s Teflon…nothing sticks to her…_

Reid’s mind worked on dozens of simultaneous levels; it was no trouble to analyze and envy Prentiss’ amazing skills of evasion, while calculating his odds of surviving the next ten minutes, while also reviewing defensive skills he’d learned by observing Hotch over the last few years. Sometimes alpha posturing was the only way to save yourself from an alpha attack. Turning, he raised his chin, confronting Morgan with a clear gaze, and only a slight tremble.

_Be cool. Be cool. Don’t blink. Don’t blink. Hotch never blinks. Don’t blink._

“Morging, mornan…uh…Mornag, mor…” _Drat!!!_

“Can it, Kid.” Morgan’s eyes blazed. Reid wondered if they were bloodshot from lack of sleep…the barking alarm clock had been rigged to go off every forty-five minutes, no matter the settings, no matter the power source…or actually glowing with demonic rage.

“Fix it, Reid. Fix it, **_now_**.”

“I’m sorry. I have no idea to what you’re referring.” _There! That came out perfect! A little snotty, a little condescending. Alpha-worthy._

Morgan’s brows drew down to a single line. Glowering, shoulders hunched, he looked like a bull about to charge. “R-e-i-d…either you get your boney butt over to my place and _fix_ it, or you’re spending the foreseeable future cuffed in my living room in front of the TV.” His voice descended to a snarl. “I hope you like Shirley Temple, genius, ‘cause you’re gonna be watching her every…single…night…until…you… ** _FIX_** it!”

“Morning, agents…Problem?” Hotch entered the kitchen, trailing calm authority in his wake. He made for the coffee machine, raising one judgmental eyebrow at his subordinates; a tacit reminder to behave like the professionals he expected them to be.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Reid blurted ‘Nope! No problem!’…and bolted.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” Muttering, Morgan stalked after his fleeing colleague.

No one was in the room to see the Unit Chief’s small, sly smile as he poured his coffee and let his inventive mind wander, imagining the lengths Reid must have gone in extracting revenge for his ‘arrest.’

To make Morgan _that_ angry, it must’ve been almost…fox-worthy.

 

xxxxxxx

 

“I’m surprised you have the gall to call, Marty.”

Rossi had been ignoring his phone for the most part. It had been ringing almost non-stop. Every once in a while he’d glance at the incoming number in case it was legit...someone he’d recognize…but it usually wasn’t. He’d grown weary of the demands for ‘the Magic Ribbon Poodle’ for birthdays, bar mitzvahs, fundraisers. It seemed there were no end of opportunities for a gaily clad freak-dog these days.

He’d discovered the flyers tacked around his neighborhood as soon as he’d driven home the previous night. But he’d been mystified as to why he was receiving so many calls. What he’d seen certainly defamed Mudgie, but it didn’t offer his phone number or mention anything concerning hiring the animal out.

A late trip to the grocery store solved that mystery.

All Rossi had to do was go a little further afield to find the damning evidence that Marty had gone back on their agreement in a way that revealed the evil genius Rossi suspected had been lurking just beneath the surface all along. After finding the flyer posted in a prominent place in the grocer’s window, he’d done a quick tour of surrounding businesses. Every place that could claim a decent amount of foot traffic displayed the ‘Magic Mudge’ poster.

And now the man who’d instigated this…this… _degrading nightmare!_...had the unmitigated nerve to call him. No doubt to gloat.

“We had an agreement, Marty. I never thought I’d see the day when you’d break trust with me.” Rossi gave a disgusted snort. “Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

For a moment the only sound that came back at him was a speechless sputtering. Maybe it was outraged. Maybe it was stunned. One thing it definitely _wasn’t_ , though, was gloating.

“ _Me_?! _Me_ break trust?!?” There was a heavy pause as the doctor drew several calming breaths, gathering his dignity about him like a tattered cloak before continuing. “Dave, the only reason I’m calling is to let you know I set Aaron up with a physical therapist. It should help ease some of that chronic rib pain of his. I set him up, but _you_ have to make sure he makes appointments. And keeps them.” Another pause as Marty lost the battle to keep the conversation focused on Aaron. Sarcasm and resentment dripped from the doctor’s voice when he resumed. “Think you can manage that, Dave? Can you be trusted with Aaron, or are you going to throw that trust to the four winds, too?”

“Don’t try to weasel out of what you did, Marty. God knows how long I’ll be suffering the fallout with all the calls. You wanna make this right between us? Then take down all those flyers.” Rossi’s tone held a note of weary defeat. “I’ve pulled down every one I’ve seen, but I can’t find them all. As long as there’s even _one_ …” He sighed. “Just…take them down.”

“Dave, I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.” This time Marty’s pause was puzzled. “Are you saying you didn’t have Fudge’s picture put on all that…cheap _junk_...you left at my place?”

Rossi blinked. He was partially guilty. He _had_ plastered Star-Spangled Fudge on everything he could think of. But the incriminating items were all stashed in the box in which they’d arrived, except for the dog bowl for which Mudge seemed to have developed a fondness.

He decided to skip the question of acquisition and focus on that of delivery.

“Marty, I didn’t leave anything at your house. Nothing.” Rossi sensed hesitation, but not complete disbelief in the ensuing silence. He pushed his advantage. “I swear by everything that we’ve ever shared, Marty. I swear by our time in ‘Nam.”

He heard a slight intake of breath; recognition of what both men considered a sacred oath.

“Dave, there was a trail of…I don’t know…cups, mouse pads, t-shirts…all kinds of stuff…leading to my door. All with Fudge and those stupid stars all over her. You didn’t do that?”

Rossi dropped into a chair, shaking his head. “No. No, I didn’t.” He licked dry lips. “Marty, are you telling me you had nothing to do with putting up Mudge’s picture with all those ribbons on him? And saying he could be rented out for…for…” It almost hurt to say it. “…for _parties_?”

The reply was most satisfyingly aghast. “I would _never_ do something like that. _Never!_ ”

“Well, someone did.”

Rossi’s eyes squinted. The natural suspect would be Aaron. But that was too obvious. And the man had been extremely ill. _Frighteningly_ ill. The entire episode with Aaron’s emotional journey didn’t lend itself to the sort of hijinks that had set Rossi and Marty at each other’s throats. And at one point or another during the last two weeks, every member of the team had been in his home. He was well aware that any of them could gain entry in his absence. Some had keys and alarm codes. Some simply had the expertise required to circumvent the need for keys and codes.

He couldn’t jump to conclusions. But it was very troubling.

“I think we’ve been played, Marty.”

“I agree.”

Rossi took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I doubted you. Should’ve known better. Guys like us don’t do stuff like that.”

“Well…not so blatantly anyway.” The doctor’s chuckle told Rossi the rift was healed. “So you’ll make sure Aaron gets some treatment on those ribs? I’ll send you the contact info for the therapist.”

Rossi nodded. “If I have to drag him there myself. And you’ll keep the next long weekend free so we can surprise Garcia with that trip to Tuscany?”

The chuckle grew into outright laughter. “Are we really going to do that?”

“Yep. I think we are. Still wanna?”

“A trip to Italy with an almost-native guide? And almost all expenses paid? I’d be crazy not to!”

The call ended on a much more cordial note than it had begun.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Rossi rubbed his hand over his beard, staring at the bullpen beyond his office window. He’d been playing catch-up after the extended leave spent looking after Hotch and Jack. He hadn’t paid much attention to the rest of the team. Going out to the catwalk, he braced his arms against the railing, observing the interactions and atmosphere below him.

Seeing him, J.J. decided to take a break of her own, coming out of her adjacent office and joining him.

She leaned beside Rossi, mirroring his stance.  “Glad to be back? Rossi?”

“What?” He pulled himself out of apparently deep concentration. “Oh, yeah, yeah. I am.” He continued watching the scene in the pen.

J.J. rested her chin on arms crossed atop the railing. “Hotch looks a lot better than he has in a long time. Rest must’ve done him good.”

“J.J., is it just me, or would you say there’s a little tension in the bullpen today?”

“Hmmm?” The liaison took a minute to track the BAU inmates. Prentiss, Reid and Morgan were all at their desks. But there was none of the usual banter. Instead, glances were ricocheting between the three. Suspicion. Wariness. Avoidance. It didn’t seem to be affecting their work, judging by the files accumulating in out-boxes, but there was definitely some unusual subtext going on between them.

J.J. frowned. “They do seem a little stressed, don’t they?”

Rossi nodded. “And I just had an altercation over the phone with an old friend that a couple weeks ago I’d have never imagined happening.”

“Hmmmm…” J.J.’s chin raised as she considered the possibility of such unusual behaviors coinciding. “You know, Rossi…I used to babysit a lot when I was a teen.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “I always found that when things got stirred up for no reason at all…nine times out of ten the quietest child was the culprit.”

Both agents’ heads turned toward Hotch’s office.

“Nine times out of ten?”

“Uh-huh…”

After a moment’s silent study, Rossi shook his head, heaving a deep sigh. “Not good enough. It’d never stand up in court.”

“Maybe not. B-u-t…” J.J. edged toward her office, one eye trained on the Unit Chief’s profile as he bent over his desk. “…I’m gonna watch my back anyway.”

Without warning, Hotch turned, looking straight at them through the slits in the blinds covering his window. Slowly, with the inevitability of an unstoppable, natural force, he grinned.

J.J. and Rossi retreated before the power of the Full Fox.

Hotch was back.

And he felt g-o-o-d.

 

 

\--The End--


End file.
